Rhyll Biest's Blog, page 2

Sarah 'Sizzling-yoga-pants' Belle explains marketing for lady products

I took delivery of my new menstrual cup last week. I went for the Juju cup- simply because I liked the name.  Juju! It’s fun to say. It’s also locally made, so I am supporting the economy.

The box was decorated in gorgeous flowers and swirls, and opened like the petals of a flower revealing a silky purple drawstring padded bag inside.

I inspected the new cup, and once it had my approval, put it back in said glorious silky bag and reassembled the floral box. Then I saw it ... the sticker Juju had put on the box.

‘MODEL 2 – FOR WOMEN WHO HAVE HAD A VAGINAL BIRTH.’

Way to make a woman feel special, Juju! My enormous vagina was so happy to know that size 2 is the largest cup you make.

Are they serious?

I understand that because the cup is more specialised than a generic tampon that anatomical factors should be taken into account when purchasing. However, I really think they could come up with better names than Size 1 and Size 2.

Look at the plethora of size names for other feminine hygiene products:

Regular: A little bland and non-descript but highly relatable because are times of the month when we just want to ‘blend in’ and perhaps be invisible while we deal with the monthly that can leave us either a homicidal maniac, a blithering mess or three kilos heavier from chocolate cravings.  (Or a mixture of all three).

Slim/slender: Who wouldn’t like to use this size? It’s very flattering.

Mini: I’m not sure if this is in reference to a mouse, or a female the size of a mouse? It’s a little too rodent for my liking.

Maxi: My dog’s name is Maxi, and yes, I have occasionally slipped and called him ‘Maxi pad’ instead of ‘Maxi pup’.  I think this was the size of the first pad my mother gave me and it was like wearing a brick between my legs. They didn’t call pads ‘surfboards’ for nothing back in the 70s and 80s. It does, however, imply safety; a menstrual prison- no leaks or escapes here.

Overnight: Sounds exciting! Who doesn’t love a sleep over? Can we toast marshmallows, shine torches on our faces and tell scary ghost stories until we are all too scared to go to the toilet on our own?

Junior: Sounds quite masculine. I get visuals of the under-nines soccer team. No thanks.

Super: Yeah baby! Super! I’m diggin’ it.  Who wouldn’t like a super twat? Does it come with its own cape?

Super-plus: Sounds like a superannuation fund. Far too sensible and bureaucratic. Where’s the spontaneity in this one?

Maternity: Pure hell. Purchasers of these puppies know that they are in for a relentless six-week period that never ends. Been there, done that. Never again.

And the Grand Mammy of them all...

ULTRA: It’s thrilling, action-packed and dangerous; the Avengers of sanitary protection. It wears a shiny cape, can fly and fears nothing. It’s the duck’s guts of feminine hygiene. 

Imagine a Naughty Ninja marketing department. Our sizes would be so freaking awesome:

Glitter: For the days when you need a little extra sparkle.

Unicorn: When you wish your period was a mythical creature.

Celebration: For when you’re on the last day and tomorrow will signal hormonal freedom!

Couch Potato: When you have no intention of getting off the couch, unless it’s to refill the M&M bowl or devour another tub of ice cream.

Fuck Off and Leave Me Alone or I Will Kill You: No explanation needed.

So, clearly Juju’s marketing department is run by men because women wouldn’t assign a number to indicate vaginal size. A woman-led marketing team would understand that if there’s one thing we don’t want to be classified by size, it’s our vagina!

We are already judged on the number of lovers who have gained access to our vagina as well as the number of babies that have exited our vagina.  Why whack a size on it as well?

Jealous of yourself?

By Cate Ellink (who wrote the angst) and Lily Malone (who added humour and perspective)

Jealous of yourself. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? But let me explain. Way back in 2010, I realised I had to pick a genre (and subgenre) and write in that, not cross genres and subgenres like I was wanting to do. I decided on one genre and two subgenres, and set to work. I also decided on two separate and distinct writing names. My erotic work would go under the writing name of Cate Ellink (she’s the Ninja!) and my other work, rural romance, would be under another name, Cath. Two Caths/Cates, one real ‘me’. (And no, I’m not giving this book a plug. This is about me, Cate, not Cath!)

The raunchy Cate Ellink got published first with a short story in an anthology at the end of 2011. Cate’s had 7 short stories, 2 novellas and a novel published (plus she joined the Naughty Ninjas because Cath was waaaay to goody-two-shoes to ever be cool as a Ninja). But it is probably fair to say that Cate Ellink’s work never took off like, say, you know –  that other erotic book –  what’s it called? Yeah. Fifty Shades of Grey.

Then, very recently after a long time trying, Cath got her rural romance published. 

Now, Cate was oh so cool… “yeah, so a published book is no big deal… I do it all the time.” Cath was jumping up and down, “OMG WOW! A print book that’s clean and sweet and all those non-erotic things people can cope with.”

Cath’s book came out and all of a sudden family and friends bought it and talked about it. The support has been nothing short of stunning – emails, phone calls, Facebook messages all keeping Cath busy. They’re spreading the word, buying and reading.  

And don’t get me wrong… this is wonderful for Cath, but Cate is going all green and snarly. Cath is selling more books that Cate ever has. Darn her eyes!

Cate is trying to pull her big girl panties up about it, you know, blow it off, be cool… but inside, she’s seething. Who is this upstart rural romance writer? Why don’t MY books sell so well?

This is what it’s like inside my head right now:

Well-meaning friend asks Cath: What does it feel like to be a real author?

Me (Cath): It’s fantastic. (gives a smile)

Me (Cate, although not out loud): I’ve been a freaking real author for the last 4 ½ years and you wouldn’t talk to me. Why the heck not? Am I not real because I write about hard cocks and dripping cunts?

Me (Cath): Ahem… this is about ME, Cate!

Well-meaning friend: Cath, your writing is great.

Me (Cath): Thank you (try for another smile)

Me (Cate, although not out loud): Oh, and my writing isn’t? Too sweary/sexy/sweaty for you, hey? 

Well-meaning friend: Oh, Cath, your book’s on a bookshelf. You must be so proud! That must be fantastic.

Me (Cath): Really exciting (another smile)

Me (Cate, although not out loud): Well, my book was on a bookshelf too, not that anyone seemed to want to buy that, or acknowledge it even existed.

Both mes: Sigh.

Cate blames Cath. 

Cate/Cath (oh hell, both of us) come from a very conservative background, so family and friends all cringe about the sex writing. Cate/Cath (oh hell, “we”) work for people who may not be too happy about the sex writing either, should they find out. So both of me hasn’t plastered Cate’s work all over everything out of respect for others. But now I feel like I’ve hidden the Cate part of myself, jeopardising Cate’s success to pander to other people’s sensitivities. And that really irks me, the Cate me.

I don’t really know how to process these feelings. It wasn’t something I expected to happen. I’ve never felt it for anyone else largely because they write differently to me – but this is me. All me. Both me. Just with or without sex and swearing, and is that so terrible?

I should be happy – I’d always intended to write in two subgenres, which I’ve now achieved. I shouldn’t be feeling slighted because the Cath half of me is doing better than the Cate. But I am.

We (Cath and Cate - lord, this gets confusing doesn’t it?) had a chat to Dad today because he’s one of the few people who has read Cate and coped with her (even if he did share Cate’s book with his mates by passing it over in a brown paper bag!). Aside from thinking I’m nuts, and telling me I shouldn’t feel like this, he said that Cate is a persona I’ve developed and not the ‘me’ that other people see. So they can’t relate to Cate. They also would never have read anything like the writings of Cate, and so have no frame of reference to comment about the calibre of that writing. Cate’s very confronting for them, and I need to realise that.

Cath concedes Dad has a point. 

Cate reckons Dad underestimates how many friends and family might have read Fifty Shades of Grey… (See? She hasn’t quite tamed the green beast inside yet.) ☺

Anyone got any advice for my split personality?

Trump erotica broke grasshopper Roz Groves

A little warning: if you are offended by sweariness, overt sexytimes, Donald Trump or interspecies action, this probably is not a piece for you to read. However if, like me, you have no shame or filter, read along with the epic level craziness that these books emit!

I have read some seriously crazy shit in my time reviewing books – unicorn sheikhs, cuttlefish gangbangs, men rooting extra-wide toasters – and as a result, I thought I had a pretty high threshold for when the shit gets weird. But thanks to the Internet, and the inexplicable fascination that some people have with the bewigged one, I think I may just have found my breaking point.

That breaking point is Donald Trump-inspired erotica. The book that pushed me to the edge, and ran me off the cliff with a bulldozer, was the rather brilliantly titled “President Trump’s Gay Hairpiece and the Revenge of the Were-Water Buffalo” by Phoenix Debray. The cover itself should probably have been a red flag.

Yes, that IS a water buffalo dry-humping a toupee in front of the White House.

I really cannot explain how freaking bonkers this was. With lines like “Fuck me like you want to repossess my house” and a scene where the Donald gets surprise buttsex from one half of a rogue hairpiece called Maurice, it is hard to imagine this could get crazier. However...... Phoenix Debray took the WTFery and said "Challenge accepted". Another quick warning: if you wish to maintain a pleasant image of Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, best to discontinue reading this one. 

Once you've had the image burned into your brain of Donald Trump beating off to The Rock fighting a Chinese were-water buffalo shifter with punches and blowjobs for the right to be transformed into one of them.......well, you may just need some industrial-strength brain bleach.

But HEY! I'm probably going to end up reading past my breaking point. You know why? Because swimming in the ocean of WTFery is a crapload of fun!

When author Q&A time gets personal!

Unless you were recently abducted by aliens or had me blocked on all social media channels (not a bad idea, really) you would have noticed that (with the help of a bangin’ group of Canberra romance writers) I hosted a screening of the film Love Between the Covers at the Tuggeranong Arts Centre.

Around fifty people showed up and though we’d asked the audience to write their questions for our panel of romance writers on their tickets before handing them in, I was kind of surprised when they actually did it. And did they ask some beauties! There were quite a few questions about sex (mostly from the male members of the audience, bless their hearts) and because my sense of humour is a little saucy (think Bukowski on Viagra) those just happened to be the ones that stuck with me and I'd like to share.

Question: Do you find that there is pressure to be as spicy as your protagonist in real life?

Sweet baby Jesus, I hope not. I write about heroines who are up for threesomes and foursomes and bondage fun, but I’m more the sort of gal who worries about urinary tract infections, rope burn and STDs. Fantasy means not having to worry about all that. Plus, who’s going to pressure me? It’s just me and the pet rocks living in my writing cave!

Question: Do any of you use porn as a research aid for inspiration for your sex scenes?

I think the best answer for this question is “I’ll tell you all about how I use porn if you tell me how you use it first.” I’m pretty sure that would be the end of the conversation.

But, yes, the joy of porn. Which writer was it who once said porn had all the charm of open heart surgery? I can’t remember, but it seems an apt analogy when talking about some of the hardcore video stuff I’ve encountered online while looking for pictures of unicorns and daisies. And the thing is, I write romance, and not a lot of porn is very romantic. Porn is all ‘oh, I see you have genitals, I have some too, want to rub them together? And then we’ll go rub them with him and him and her’ whereas romance is more ‘you and your genitals are the light of my life, no genitals shine brighter than yours’ and ‘our genitals shall merge and become one and be together forever more’ or something like that.

Thus, while the odd interesting picture on Tumblr or Facebook may provide some inspiration, the sex in romance is about feelings and sensation rather than mechanics, so the inspiration for sexy times usually has to tumble straight from my brain (or that of my characters). 

Question: Do you become aroused when writing steamy sections in your novels or do you get desensitised over time? 

I love this question for so many reasons, the main one being that I get an image of me in my slippers and a dressing gown, hair in curlers, a fag dangling off my lip as I stare at the laptop in distaste and mutter “oh, fuck me, not another effing sex scene to write”. The idea that I might develop some kind of Pavlovian aversion to sex, or simply turn into a robot devoid of normal human responses, is hilarious. I can also imagine explaining to a partner, new or old, ‘sorry, but that sex stuff doesn’t do it for me because I write about it all day long. How about we play Candy Crush instead?’

Question: Are your stories reflections of your fantasies and desires?

Another kind of personal question, but was I embarrassed? Hell to the no. Because authors get this one A LOT. And I’d really like to know if science fiction and crime fiction writers often get asked questions like ‘do you write about murder because you’d like to kill your family?’ or ‘do you write about space monkeys flying out of alien butts because you’d like to be an alien and have space monkeys fly out of your alien butt?’

Though, to be honest, my main fantasy is of a socially just society and often my writing has a feminist slant. But somehow I don’t think that was the kind of fantasy being asked about…

Elyse 'I heart dukes' Huntington turns puck bunny overnight

Elyse's new underpants.

Something surprising happened to me over the Christmas holidays. And when I say surprising, I mean surprising in a good way.

I discovered sports romances.

I suppose technically speaking (and I like to be precise because I’m a lawyer and we heart precision) I did read a sports romance an eon ago. I was only reminded recently that my first ever sports romance was ‘It Had to be You’ by Susan Elizabeth Phillips. It was about a heroine who inherits a pro football team, when she knows nothing about football. She immediately clashes with the team trainer hero, whom she sees as nothing more than a jock. The hero, of course, thinks she is nothing but a bimbo, and from that premise, laughter, hilarity and angst ensues. That was a great book. Mental note: I should reread this.

Thinking back, I didn’t really get into the sports romance subgenre because I then embarked on my historical romance phase which lasted for many years, during which time the only contemporary romances I read were crime thrillers and later on, new adult romances featuring billionaires along the lines of Christian Grey (although I personally prefer Gideon Cross). Out-of-this-world sexiness. But let’s not get side-tracked.

So over Christmas, I unexpectedly had three days to myself. Three blissful days in which I went to bed super late, woke up super late, ate leftover Christmas ham and Heston Blumenthal’s hidden orange Christmas pudding. It was during this time that I first read ‘The Deal’ by Elle Kennedy. Smart, sweet and spunky heroine is asked by ice hockey player to tutor him. Yes! One-clicked. Love this trope.

I devoured 'The Deal' in less than four hours. It was great fun. One of my favourite lines in the book?

“You met Dean in the hall, and that’s Tucker,” Garrett adds, pointing to the auburn-haired guy on the couch, who--surprise, surprise--is as good-looking as the rest of them. I wonder if “sexy as fuck” is a requirement for living in this house.” 

Snicker.

I think I might have cheered, because obviously this was going to be a series. More sexy ice hockey players to read about! My new addiction to sports romance--although really, it’s more like ice hockey romances--was further cemented when I read ‘Him’ by Elle Kennedy and Sarina Bowen. 'Him' is a M/M best friends to lovers romance featuring not one but two hot ice hockey players. I was in heaven. It also turned out to be one of the best M/M new adult romances I have ever read.

I was on a roll. After 'Him', I read a couple of romances featuring American football to change things up just a little. These were ‘Sweet Home’ by Tillie Cole and ‘The Hookup’ by Kristen Callihan. Both were very good, too, but have a fair bit more heartache and angst than my ice hockey novels. Over January, I read the Ivy Years series by Sarina Bowen, which is based on college ice hockey but it is not ice hockey-centric. I really enjoyed this series, so much so that I’ve gone back and re-read three of the books in the series.

And, as a bonus, I’ve learnt about a new sport which I’m finding absolutely fascinating and super cool (no pun intended). Last week, I watched my first ever ice hockey training session of the CBR Brave, Canberra’s very own Australian Ice Hockey League team, and I will definitely be attending their opening game in April. If that’s not enough, I’m currently attempting my first ever new adult romance featuring an Asian-American ice hockey player!

I now know so many new words I never knew before; like checking and hat tricks and centres and defenseman and deke and blue line and face off. I love that being a writer – and reader – means you can learn about so many new things.

Huh. Maybe the heroine in my next book can be a thermonuclear physicist who plays ice hockey in her spare time. I’ll keep you posted.

xx

Elyse

Ebooks versus print books, the grudge match

Why cats hate ebooks.

Coke versus Pepsi, crumping versus twerking, these are the great questions of our time...along with ebooks versus print books. 

Really there’s no reason to choose between the two (unless you enjoy watching Luddites mud wrestle tech nerds) but for romance and erotica readers there’s really no question as to which is the better option, and the reasons boil down to availability, anonymity and access. 

Availability: Can readers buy a copy of Gay Dinosaur Billionaire Adventures with Bigfoot and Friends in print? Nope. What about Taken by the Toaster? No. And Taken for Ice Cream: My Billionaire Unicorn T-Rex Shifter 1? Again, no. All of these literary gems are only available as ebooks. 

Anonymity: In addition, like gingers, Huguenots and fans of the movie Fifty Shades of Grey, romance readers are a persecuted group. With their reading tastes ridiculed by all and sundry, is it any wonder then that when travelling by plane or train romance readers (Roz Groves, I’m looking at you) prefer the anonymity provided by a Kindle cover rather than outing themselves by flaunting a paperback with a bronzed Fabio clutching a woman to his nether regions? Ebooks can also provide privacy at home, too, particularly for mothers who don’t want to be asked by their five-year-old at the dinner table what ‘suspension bondage’ means. 

Access: Just as the internet provided billions with easy access to porn, ebooks provided romance readers with shame-free access to their chosen genre. No longer do they have to sidle up to the library counter with a copy of Ravished by the Rutabaga wedged between two classics, or risk the sneers of uppity sales clerks at bookstores. Instead, all they have to do is hit the One Click button on the Amazon website and the Kindle copy of Punished by the Potato is theirs. 

In fact, the only disadvantage of ebooks from the point of view of erotica and romance readers is that if you hurl your e-reader at a wall to express your dissatisfaction with a story, it’s going to cost you a lot more than the price of the ebook you purchased. But canny readers know that e-reader hurling is not worth the effort—if Pregnesia proves to be a disappointment, there’s always the sequel to Pet to the Tentacle Monsters! to be had for just ninety-nine cents. Because ebooks are usually way cheaper than paper books.

A very smexy Christmas

No matter how brave she’d told herself to be, Priscilla (Prissy) Lockett couldn’t hide her shudder as the pink and white paint of No. 277 Thunder Road neared. Could she do it? Could she actually stop outside that shop and enter between those candy-stripe columns?

It was all Granville Hardy’s fault she was here. The wanker.

Last night as Prissy had shrugged into her Elmo pyjamas, shattered after a hard day at the office, all she’d really wanted was a cuddle and a good spooning.

Then Granville heaved out this huge sigh and said: “Elmo. I guess that means no rumpy tonight?”

And Prissy could have said all sorts of things, but what she said was: “What’s wrong with Elmo?”

“It’s either Elmo or your souvenir Australian Cricket Team World Cup nightie, Pris. Only one of them gets me laid, and we both know why that is.”

Prissy had sputtered a bit, but Granville flicked Elmo’s nose in that I-rest-my-case-way.

That got interesting for half a second because Elmo’s nose happened to be situated right on top of her left nipple, and Prissy had always been a sucker for a bit of nipple flicking. Not that Granville noticed her indrawn breath. Oh no, he was still resting his case.

“Just once, don’t you think it might be nice if you came to bed in something see-through and lacy? Something with belts or ties or clamps or bows. Something pink or black or leather, instead of Australian cricket team yellow? Don’t I deserve more?”

“Of course, Granville,” Prissy said, wondering whether it was too soon to go for the spoon.

“Prove it. It’s Christmas… why don’t you buy a little present for yourself that I’d like too.”

Prissy’s step slowed, and slowed again. At this rate she’d soon be mincing up the sidewalk and that was plain ridiculous. She was a grown woman and just because she was nearly twenty-eight and she’d never been in a sex shop before—

Sex Shop. Oh God.

I’m here.

Sucking in a deep breath, Prissy glanced over the top of her sunglasses.

The window wasn’t so bad. Cheery with tinsel and holly; little smiling elves; and what were those furry triangular bikini things hanging up? Some new kind of Christmas wreath?

She couldn’t stand staring all day, someone would see her. Ogling a sex shop window wasn’t something she wanted to explain. To anyone. Once inside, she’d be right. No one would see her.

Sucking in a deep breath for courage, Prissy felt her big girls pants crimp around her stomach as she closed her hand on the door handle of the shop and pushed. Nothing happened. She looked at the door, saw the word “Pull” and pushed again. Still nothing.

“It’s shut. Bloody hell.” How could she have worked up the courage to come only to have the stupid shop shut? What kind of hours did they keep? She scanned looking for a sign with the hours and then she saw movement inside.

She stepped backwards as a great towering giant with a bright shock of blonde hair opened the door towards her. He grinned and all she could see were teeth. White, glorious teeth surrounded by plump pink flesh looking as soft as a baby’s bottom.

“You need to pull, not push. It’s a trick for the unsuspecting.” His voice made Prissy’s thighs clench, her stomach drop and moisture pool.

“I have to pull?” Prissy felt her lips move but the voice that came out was throaty sex siren.

“The door, sweetheart. You have to pull the door towards you. But if there’s something else you’d like to pull, I’m open to offers from beautiful women like you.” That should have sounded sleazy, but it didn’t. Prissy didn’t recognized her own laughter, she was like a bird trilling.

This blonde giant was flirting with her, Prissy Lockett.

It had been a very long time since a man flirted with her. Okay, well, a man under the age of eighty. All the old men in the retirement home flirted with her, but that was just because that’s what old men did. This man had no reason to flirt with her – except for the fact that she was entering a sex shop, and maybe that gave him a license to flirt.

Prissy wasn’t sure what to do or what to say. She just knew she couldn’t look at the giant any more. He was so gorgeous he was hurting her eyes, and battering her hopeful heart with his meaningless flirting. She walked through the doorway with a tiny, “Thank you,” then lifted her gaze to take in the shop.

Her gaze bounced off the rubber vaginas, slid off the lubricants and landed upon things she had no name for. They looked a little like prosthetic unicorn horns. Who knew that unicorns frequented sex shops?

She scurried away from the blonde giant, wanting nothing to do with the precipitation he incited in her knickers. That sort of thing was so very unlike her. What would Granville say if he ever found out? Though it was his fault in the first place that she was skulking in a sex shop like a member of parliament between sittings. Like it was her fault he didn’t consider Tickle Me Elmo pajamas a sexual invitation. Truly, what red-blooded man didn’t?

She fled to the safety of the bookshelves lining one wall. There she scanned the titles, eyes widening. Understanding Your Submissive Garden Gnome. Debrief Me: A Guide to Talking Dirty to Your Public Servant Lover. How to Reach Orgasm Through Ikebana.

With a shudder she moved away, almost left—whore couture be damned—when another title caught her eye.

The Joy of Elf Sex. That seemed an odd title, even for a sex shop. Though it was Christmas, maybe it was a naughty story about Santa’s elves.

Elf gang-bang. She almost snickered. Blinked. Sweet baby Jesus, where were these crazy thoughts coming from?

She smothered a shriek as a hand rested on her shoulder. An upward glance and she met the giant’s deep blue eyes.

“Y-y-yes?”

“Did you know that elves are wonderful lovers and that we don’t carry any sexually transmitted diseases? Well, not ones that affect humans, anyway.”

We? Her body flushed hot and cold.

His smile was faintly lopsided, the left corner of his lip rising a fraction higher than the right. Not that she was focusing on those delectable lips or anything – that would be creepy- but it was a smile loaded with charm and sexual confidence, and Prissy knew instinctively that the blonde giant was a sex god.

“We? “she whispered. Her eyes darted about the shop, expecting to see pointy-eared customers wearing ornate headbands and earthly coloured robes. To her surprise, there were a lot of blonde-haired people, but their ears were obscured by their long hair. Maybe it’s a favourite sex-shop for hippy Norwegians?

“Yes, Prissy. We. I’ve been waiting for you.”

If his lips didn’t set Prissy’s panties on fire, the infinitesimal twitch in his eyebrow did. Almost imperceptible, it screamed of mind-blowing pleasures, most of which Prissy had only ever imagined, or witnessed on late night SBS. Bless those laissez-faire Scandinavians.

She tried to speak, but was overwhelmed by the desire to strip her clothes off and mount this blonde giant. Her inner-Scandinavian was revealing itself.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her trembling hand in his bear-sized paw. “I believe there’s something in this shop that will interest you. Something that will …” he did he eyebrow thing again … “bring us both everlasting pleasure.”

Everlasting pleasure. Every girl’s dream! Prissy had experienced many orgasms, but never with Granville in the room. His name was misleading- there was nothing Hardy about Granville. That man wouldn’t know endurance if it beat him on the ass for nine hours.

“Tonight. You and I. Here,” he said, placing an address into her hand.

“Yesss, yesss.” Under a spell, she couldn’t stop herself from agreeing to meet him.

“A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting,” he said as his lips caressed the palm of her hand. His moist breath made her panties disintegrate in a pouf of magical stardust. In her hands he placed a set of red, furry handcuffs and matching baby-doll. It looked like Elmo, dissected, and made the precipitation in her panties turn into a torrential downpour.

By the time she could drag her eyes from the red, marabou trimmed bedroom mules which he'd also added to her instant sex-goddess outfit, he was no where to be seen. What the? Could an overdose of candy canes bring on hallucinations? 

She looked down at the profusion of red in her hands. Not what she'd choose for herself, but then she doubted they stocked a crotchless Elmo onesie. Prissy looked around once more, but no sexy blond giant. Her damn imagination had about as much staying power as Granville.

She pushed aside the black velvet changeroom curtain, but no joy there either. Oh well, she was no stranger to fuelling her libido with imaginary lovers, but doing it in public was new. Kinda freaky. Kinda kinky. She smiled and caught sight of her reflection in the changeroom mirror, face slightly flushed, a profusion of red silk and marabou clutched to her chest. The colour looked good against her skin. The silk would probably feel good against it.

Stepping into the small room, Prissy pulled the curtain shut behind her and in moments the liquid softness of red silk was sliding over her body. The babydoll fell to just below her butt and clung to her breasts, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her breasts looked amazing. She slid her feet into the marabou mules and twirled. Damn, her arse looked amazing too. Her imaginary elf knew how to sex up a woman. As she surveyed her gorgeousness a scrap of white on the floor caught her attention.

The paper shook in her hand as she picked it up and saw an address written in what could only be described as elfish script. 'Geezus Miss Prissy, I think you've fallen down a rabbit hole,' she told her reflection. 'Or,' - she looked down at the sparkly-heeled red mules – 'landed in Oz.'

What he hell. Today was already weird. What could it hurt. Prissy closed her eyes and clicked her spangled heels together.

Prissy’s mouth fell open. She had been expecting some sort of mansion woven from magical tree branches and the wishes of fairies. Where she had materialised, however, was on some sort of balcony overlooking…what in the name of all that is holy was that? It looked liked she was looking into Santa’s factory – lines and lines of elves making toys. She did a double take. Not just toys. Sex toys.

“Good evening.”

At the sound of the familiar voice, she whirled around, almost losing her balance before a large male hand caught her upper arm. Prissy landed against a chest that felt like it had been carved out of a boulder, measuring just as wide. She couldn’t help herself. Her nipples tightened and she gasped.

His blue eyes twinkled in the dim light of the walkway. “I was hoping you would come.”

Me too, thought Prissy. Multiple times. One always lived in hope.

“I have not introduced myself. I am Galaeron. And this is my domain.” He waved his arm about like a king indicating his realm.

Prissy blinked. “Your domain is a sex toy factory?” Maybe she shouldn’t have had the entire wheel of brie with all those candy canes. She hadn’t even had such crazy hallucinations when she did weed with her best friend in Year 11. This was weird. Weird, but kinda awesome.

Galaeron chuckled. “This is one of many factories. We are at full capacity, you see, with Christmas only weeks away.”

“I see,” she said faintly. “And are you…um, one of Santa’s elves?”

The blond giant’s laughter sounded like rolling thunder. “I don’t wish to disappoint you, but Santa does not exist. We are the gifting elves, giving rewards those who deserve them.”

O…kay. Prissy’s eyelids fluttered. “I-Is that why I am here?”

There was that eyebrow twitch again, and if she had been wearing undies, they would have been drenched. “But of course, my Priscilla. You, above all, deserve a reward.”

My Priscilla. Her heart jumped in her chest like a startled rabbit. “B-But why?”

He took her hand gently and began leading her down the walkway. “I see everything. I have seen what a faithful and generous friend you are, what a loving daughter you are, and most of all, how much kindness and love you have shown the elderly residents at the retirement home. They adore you, you know.”

Prissy was so shocked by all of this that she barely noticed that they had entered an elevator. A moment later, they emerged into a dark hallway, but Galaeron didn’t seem to notice, making his way through the corridor without hesitation, his hand fastened firmly around hers.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

He stopped before a large wooden door and pushed it open. “Welcome to my quarters.”

She hesitated. Courage, Pris. She stepped inside, her eyes widening as she walked to the middle of the room. It was like she had stepped back in time. Either that or she had wandered onto the set of Game of Thrones. The walls and floor of the room were made of stone and there were tapestries on the walls. The furniture was made from a dark wood, and in the middle of the room was the largest bed she had ever seen. Surely it was even larger than Brad and Angie’s custom-built family bed.

The door closed behind her and she started. Her breathing quickened when Galaeron padded towards her like a lion hunting its prey, his long fingers undoing the fastening of his sapphire velvet overcoat thingy. He shrugged out of it, and in one smooth action, the pale blue satin robes underneath flew away.

Prissy froze, her eyes transfixed midway down his perfect form. “Is that a…loincloth?”

“Mm… I highly recommend them. Even more comfortable than Bonds,” he murmured, as he slid the straps of her babydoll down her shoulders. It fell around her feet, and then she was naked before him.

“You are exquisite,” he declared in a low voice.

Whoa there. Did his loincloth just move? But Prissy didn’t have any time to look. Or touch. One moment she was upright and the next she was horizontal. She gave a startled exclamation when she felt soft handcuffs fasten around her wrists. Then there was another click, and lo and behold, she was chained to the bed.

But instead of being afraid, she felt moisture gather between her thighs. Her face heated in embarrassment and arousal. Galaeron’s eyes narrowed, and his lips – those sculpted, luscious lips – curved the faintest amount, and then they were upon her. Neck, breasts, nipples, thighs, feet. Toes. Who knew her toes were that sensitive. And then those lips landed where she was river-wet. She screamed.

The bad news was that there were no multiple orgasms.

The good news? Prissy had the hugest, longest, and most incredible orgasm in the history of both humankind and elves. It went on and on and on until she begged him to stop. He did, but merely to replace his tongue with another part of him. A very large, mind-bogglingly skilful part of him. The pleasure became too much. She fainted.

When Prissy came to, she found herself lying on her side, an arm around her waist, a body pressed up against her back.

Oh no. Her mind scrambled madly.

“Granville?” she ventured tentatively, her heart pounding. In fear. In hope.

“Granville the wanker?” replied that deep, melodious voice that she thought only existed in her fantasy.

Prissy stopped breathing. “Galaeron?”

“Yes.”

She slowly shifted until she was facing him. It was a struggle, because her muscles felt like KY jelly. His beauty was so dazzling her eyes hurt. She sighed happily. “I thought this was all a dream.”

He smiled. “Well, I am here to make your dreams come true.”

Hmm. So very cheesy, and yet… “Can I stay with you?”

Galaeron’s eyes were warm. “For as long as you wish.”

Prissy grinned. “Well, Merry Christmas to me.”

 THE END!

Sarah Belle's Creative Nuggets

This is what creative nuggets look like...

I’m on the motorway, with my kids in the backseat squabbling because one is breathing in a way that offends the others, or encroaches on their space, or some other crap excuse to argue, when a creative nugget hits me. Creativity is sometimes inconvenient in its arrival, but hey I’m just glad it’s arriving.

I repeat the creative nugget over and over again, mantra-style and hope that the escalating argument in the back seat doesn’t require intervention, because my brain has the retention capability of a toddler and I know that my nugget will slip through the door of creativity into the desert wasteland of writer’s drought before I can pull over safely and write it down.    

In desperation, I involve the son next to me –the eldest, M12.  He’s switched on enough to follow my instructions and transcribe my words onto the scribble app on my phone – my cache of awkwardly timed creative inspirations. My creative nugget will then be recorded with all the others in the app, and need never wander into the desert wasteland of writer’s drought.

Me: ‘I’ve just had a great idea and I need you write it down for me. Can you find my phone in my bag?’

M12:  ‘What?’ He stares at me with pre-teen blankness.

I repeat myself, watching my epiphany strolling towards the desert wasteland. He rummages around in my bag and pulls out the tin of mints.

M12:  ‘Oh, cool. Mentos. Can I have some?’

Me:  ‘Yes, just get the phone out first, please.’

He rummages around a bit more.

M12: ‘Hey, look at this photo in your wallet. Is that me? I must be about six. Damn, I was cute. No wonder I’m your favourite.’

Me: ‘Yes, that’s you, now please, please, get to the scribble pad on my phone.’ Clearly, he’s not picking up on the urgency in my voice.

He rummages around for a very long time. The nugget-mantra is still in a holding pattern, but I can feel it slipping away.

M12: ‘Mum, I’ll take your silence as agreement that I am your favourite. I knew it!’

Me:  ‘I don’t have a favourite. Where’s the phone?’

The distance between me and my nugget is increasing as it edges towards the desert wasteland. Meanwhile, M12 continues to rummage.

M12:  ‘Have you and dad talked about my new surfboard for Christmas yet?’

Me:  ‘No, not yet. Where’s my phone?’

By this stage I am antsy. The door of creativity is cracking open and I can see the desert wasteland from where I’m sitting in this bloody car on the motorway, with no hope of pulling over any time soon.

M12: ’Cos, you know, I love surfing. I’d use it all the time. I could even pay for some of it.’

Me:  ‘Yes, yes, where’s the phone?’

M12:  ‘So that’s a yes! Whoo-hoo!’

Me:  ‘No, that’s not a yes.  Where’s the phone?’

The nugget is fading ... fading ... fading...

M12:  ‘Are you sure that wasn’t a yes?’ he says, with far too much confidence. ‘I think someone wants to say yes to her favourite son.’

From the backseat: ‘He’s your favourite? I thought I was!’

Me:  ‘None of you are my favourite. I don’t have a favourite.  Is there an ETA on that phone yet?’

M12 finally pulls the phone from the bag and turns it on. The nugget is leaving me; it’s going ... going...

Me:  ‘Okay, write this down, word for word ...’

M12:  ‘Righto, I’m ready. Hey Mum, what’s a schlong?’

Oh shit! I’d forgotten about the last nugget of I’d scribbled on that app.

Me:  ‘Ahhh, nothing. It’s... (brain paralysis) nothing ...’

M12:  ‘Kinda sounds German, s-c-h-l-o-n-g.’

Me:  ‘Yeah, maybe. Now, write this down ...’

M12:  ‘Hey boys,’ he calls to his brothers in the backseat, ‘what do you reckon a schlong is? I think it’s German.’

Oh sweet Jesus! I can’t wait for this to be discussed at the dinner table tonight.

M8:  ‘Yeah, maybe it’s like a schnitzel.’

M6: ‘I like schnitzels.’

Me:  ‘Yes, I think it is a kind of schnitzel. Now, write this down-‘

M10:  ‘What’s the sentence? ‘M10 asks M12. ‘We might be able to work out what it is from the words around it.’

Context! What an insightful academic response, but this conversation has to stop. Immediately.

M12:  ‘Good idea. It says, ‘While she was appreciative of his manscaping effort, she wasn’t convinced his schlong warranted such devotion –‘

Me:  ‘No! No! No! Stop. Forget it, turn off the phone.’

M10:  ’What’s manscaping?’

M12:  ‘I think it’s when men do gardening.’

M8: ‘So we’ve got a schnitzel in a garden? Mum, that is one strange book you’re writing.’

M6: ‘I like gardens and schnitzels. He he he.’

Oh for gawd’s sake! I can only imagine the conversations they’ll have at school tomorrow. My preppiewill ask his teacher what a schlong is, and M10 will attempt to discuss manscaping during his class excursion to the volunteer coastal erosion group. M8 will write a story about a woman’s devotion to a schlong schnitzel. Wonderful. Here comes another nomination for Mother of the Year. My brain is overcrowded with the possible repercussions of this seemingly innocent conversation. My husband’s stunned silence when they ask him what a schlong is at dinner time. The phone call I will get from the school tomorrow querying my children’s vocabulary. The glares from other parents as they ask me why the hell I thought it was acceptable to use such language in front of my impressionable children- who have now taught their impressionable children the words ‘schlong’ and ‘manscaping’.

M12: ‘Okay mum, so what was it you wanted me to write down for you?’

Mental blank.  Nothing. My creative nugget is gone. It’s followed the schlong schnitzel into the manscaped world of the desert wasteland of writer’s drought. The moral of this story – write your nuggets down with old fashioned pen and paper.  It worked for Shakespeare and Bronte, so it should be good enough for me.

Sarah Belle tells us why romance & women's fiction should be included in academic lists for study

Tom, the perfect example of a male feminist

I have returned to university to complete a BA in English Lit and Creative Writing this year. Therefore, you can imagine I have analysed/deconstructed a small truckload of books in the last ten months. Not surprisingly, none of the books I studied were from the romance or commercial women’s fiction genres. In fact, there was only one novel that was genre fiction, and while I was challenged on every level by the literary fiction, I wondered (silently) why more genre fiction was not studied.

We focused on feminist readings of the texts. This interested me, being a reader and writer of women’s fiction and single titles, and I was surprised that only two texts gave agency to the female protagonist and saw her in a light other than an obedient wife or something marginally above a chattel. Yes, I know that in many texts women were oppressed by the society of that era. And in some texts, the whole point of the chattel-woman character is to make us question a woman’s role. I get that.

However, it did prompt me to reconsider why I enjoy reading women’s fiction and single titles. After all, genre fiction, especially romance or women’s fiction, couldn’t possibly offer any insight into society or the constructs we create, could they? There’s no way that novels written by women for women could be thought provoking, right?

There is a huge misconception of feminism – the stigma attached to the word conjures imagery of bra burning and man-hating lesbians with penis envy. This is not the case. According to the Oxford Dictionary, feminism is ‘the advocacy of women’s rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.’ No need to burn bras or hate men.  Men can also be feminists, because it is the ideology of equality and has nothing to do with vaginas or penises. Just look at my lust-object, Tom – he’s a perfect example of a male feminist. Tom’s a perfect example of everything. Mmmmmmm, Tom. (Or that Cumberbatch fellow if you prefer him).

So, here’s my reasons why romance/single title and women’s fiction should be included in the study of literature (yes, I know it’s not strictly ‘literature’ in an academic sense, but rules were made to be broken).

Female protagonist – the leading characters, and usually the majority of secondary characters, in romance/women’s fiction are females. Whether written in first or third person, the perspective is focalised through the female lead. It is through her eyes that we experience the social constructs that bind her to conventionality. For example, her expected role within a traditional family –mother and wife – her inability to rise above the glass ceiling, and especially the exhibition of what is considered to be appropriate female behaviour -the double standard of a male stud compared to a female slut. What I like about our genre is that our protagonists are free to challenge these constructs. Our girls are not necessarily bound by traditional expectations, they are making their way in a modern world, or in a different era (past , present or future) where women are edging closer to equality, or are, at least, capable of having an educated opinion.Our genre is usually written by women for women – could you imagine Pride and Prejudice written by a man? All females would be portrayed as overly emotional, flippant damsels in need of an afternoon nap so as not to endanger their already fragile constitution. Generally, just as your other writer friends understand the hurdles you face as a writer better than your non-writer friends, no one understands a woman like another woman.Our genre allows women to explore what they really want, and to give a voice to women’s issues. I read my first women’s fiction novel only ten years ago. The long nights spent with my second baby were an opportunity for that itty bitty book light to illuminate a female lead that was remarkably similar to me. She was having an identity crisis after motherhood , the ‘who the hell am I now that I’m not a career woman, now that I’m dependent on my husband’s wage?’ confusion that is common to many women. It was such a relief to know that someone else – even a fictional character- was sharing my experience, that I was not alone in the world. Those books helped me through a physically and emotionally exhausting time in my life, and made me realise how important women’s fiction is to women. They allowed me to challenge the societal construct of Brady Bunch style motherhood and to find my own place and balance within my new existence.Our genre allows a woman to experience sexual pleasure, it illustrates her as a desirable, sensual human being who knows what, and who, she wants, even when she’s over 40! The woman is allowed to not only instigate sex, but take control and teach her lover how to please her. Yee-fucking-har! Our genre has empowered women to either accept or decline the man on her own terms.What I really love is the evolution of our male characters, from overbearing alphas to men sensitive to a woman’s needs. Our male heroes are more feminist in their outlook, and share in the journey of the protagonist, rather than dictating it.

There are so many other reasons why at least one women’s fiction/romance should be included on academic text lists. Our genre is a mimetic representation of the evolution of feminism as experienced not only by women, but by men as well. It empowers women, it is thought provoking, and it inspires women and men to challenge the societal constructs that bind them to conventionality. I know that universities have a tradition of literature to uphold, but to ignore genre fiction that empowers, challenges constructs and provokes thought is, in my humble opinion, only telling half the story of the written word.

  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

My Real Life Romance Trope

We always remember our first love… don’t we? He is usually the one who got away… or he might have been the one we threw away… but he’s still memorable.

Thousands and thousands of romances rely on the ‘reunion’ trope. It’s the one where guy is with girl, they split for any number of angst-ridden reasons, and years later (number of years is variable) guy and girl run into each other again.

Insta-sparks fly…

There is remembered (and new) angst to be overcome…

And it all ends with a happy ever after, often with kittens or puppies or babies or any combination of the three.

In the real world, there were usually very good and practical reasons for breaking up with your first love. He wasn’t right for you. You weren’t right for him. He shagged his lady golf student in a sand bunker …

In the romance world the reasons are never quite so black and white. Often there’s a nasty third party who splits the couple apart with some well-placed lies; or the hero gets an attack of guilt at being about to steal his best friend’s sister’s virginity… and so leaves and becomes a Tycoon with an armada of yachts in the Mediterranean instead. One thing is for sure, neither ever forgets the other, or what might have been…

I love a good reunion romance. The previous history of a couple always creates a great tension and chemistry. You devour pages and pages just waiting for the characters to rip their clothes off and shag till they’re silly… but usually whatever it was that drove them apart years ago rears its ugly head and make-up sex is put on the backburner… till next time.

Reunion romances make a perfect trope for authors who write small town/rural stories, like me.

I was born and raised in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of town in the south west corner of Western Australia. I got married and moved away from my birthplace for 12 years, before returning to my ‘roots’ in 2013.

And there were a few of those roots, still in the area… so to speak.

For three years, I’ve managed to avoid running into blokes that knew me back then. Then just last week, my reunion cup overflowed.

In the checkout at Coles, I happened to glance over my shoulder, whereupon I spied a tall, dark (okay, a little on the grey side) stranger. My brow furrowed… his brow furrowed, and there was this ping of recognition. My ping went along the lines of: “oh no!”

From 5m and two checkouts apart, we were taken back more than 15 years in a whirlwind of slow-motion movie scenes… until my movie ended on the scene where he shagged his lady golf student in a sand bunker …

Meanwhile, I fumbled my Coles Fly Buy card and my credit card. I dropped my cauliflower. I got my PIN wrong and the machine beeped rudely at me.

I was through the checkout first and I had to decide. Do I wait, or do I walk?

I waited.

We had a very sweet little chat outside the Coles where he enquired about my Mum’s health; told me he was married now; told me he had fur babies but no children, and told me there were lots of snakes on his sheep and cattle farm… (I didn’t ask if he’d been playing any golf).

We bid eachother a very civil farewell (aren’t you proud of me?) and he went home to his wife and his snakes, and I went home to my hubby and my kids and whatever I intended to cook them for dinner.

THE VERY NEXT MORNING… #gasp

I was in the middle of my normal mad dash about the house getting my two boys ready for school, which always involves many shouts of “Get dressed”, “Have you cleaned your teeth?”, “Get your shoes on,” “Where’s your fucking drink bottle?” whilst wrangling two school bags and two kids into the car…

There was a tradesman assessing some tradesman-style thing with my neighbour. I didn’t recognise him, but it DID occur to me that the bloke was staring at me funny. It made me wonder if I’d actually sworn about the drink bottles out loud, instead of just in my head…

Reversing out the driveway, changing gear up the street… this tradie from next door is still staring at me! Then he smiled… my brow furrowed… and I got this ping of recognition that went along the lines of: “oh no! Not again!”

I drove the kids to school with my heart beating faster than normal and a flush in my cheeks, not only because I am always last Mum rushing through the school gates but because even though he's lost most of his hair now, that tradie really was rather cute when he was 19… 

So next time someone says: "that would only happen in the pages of a romance novel", I give you permission to ask the name of the book so you can put it on your To Be Read List. Then whack them with a golf club for being narrow-bloody minded.