Eliza Lentzski's Blog, page 3

The Girls in 3B

When I first came up with the concept for my latest novel, The Woman in 3B, I knew a couple of things: that the passenger the main character eventually fell for would be sitting in the First Class cabin, that it would be an aisle seat, and that my main character would spill a glass of water on herself as their meet cute. All I needed was a seat number. The situation was too good to pass up. It had to be seat 3B. And the book had to be called The Woman in 3B.

I’ve written here about lesbian pulp fiction novels from the post-World War II era before. And I’ve name-dropped Valerie Taylor (born Velma Young) as one of the authentic queer authors of the period. Her first lesbian title, Whisper Their Love (1957) sold more than 2 million copies. Taylor, looking back at her decision to write for the genre, had this to say: “I began writing gay novels around 1957. There was suddenly a plethora of them on sale in drugstores and bookstores … many written by men who had never knowingly spoken to a lesbian. Wish fulfillment stuff, pure erotic daydreaming. I wanted to make some money, of course, but I also thought that we should have some stories about real people.”

She wrote about the male-authored lesbian novel in a 1967 issue of The Ladder, the Daughter of Bilitis’ literary magazine. In her satirical story, “The ‘Realistic’ Novel,” she writes as if she herself is the male author. The fake novel’s main character, the beautiful Broccoli Cavendish, runs away from her roommate, Precious Signoret. Taylor writes that Precious is “Outwardly feminine, with a size 44 bust and an inexhaustible supply of black nylon lingerie, she is really a vicious butch who snarls ‘I am the man!’ when in the throes of passion.” Later in the story, Broccoli decides she’s really a “good girl” and wants to find a “normal life.”

Taylor’s second lesbian novel, The Girls in 3B, provided the inspiration for my book’s title, although they’re completely different stories. In Taylor’s 1959 story, three young women pool their resources to afford their Chicago apartment, unit 3B. This was common practice at the time for unmarried women looking to make it in the professional world. The gender pay gap made it unlikely that a single woman could afford an apartment in a big city on her own.

The back of the paperback describes the novel as this: “They came to the city fascinated, frightened – hungering after life with that desperate, head-long impatience of the very young. There was Annice - Bright, curious full of untried passion, she let Alan drag her into his beat-generation world of parties, jazz, booze, marijuana and sex. And Pat - she was big and blonde and built for love, but she was saving herself for marriage. Until she met her boss. Right from the beginning Pat knew she’d do anything for him – anything. And Barby - She was the most vulnerable. Men terrified her and for a good reason. When she finally fell in love it was with a woman.”

Unusual for its time, the story has a happy ending for Barby, although she spends the bulk of the novel being sexually abused by men. Traditionally, in order to escape publication censorship, the lesbians in these books go crazy, marry a man, go to jail, or end up dead by the final pages of the novel. Very rarely do they get the girl and get to keep the girl.

Although lesbian pulp stories from this era rarely had a happy ending in the way we would interpret one today, I still think of them as a hopeful medium.

Lesbianism was disguised in postwar America. Ann Aldrich, one of the many pen names of novelist Marijane Meaker argued in 1955 that Alfred Kinsey’s population estimates for lesbians was mistakenly low because “the lesbian is better at camouflage.”  The Ladder, the literary mouthpiece for the Daughters of Bilitis, the first national lesbian rights organization in the country, similarly described, “the lesbian is a very elusive creature. She burrows underground in her fear of identification.” In a culture where homosexuality was hidden and demonized, lesbian pulps became a resource for women searching for an identity. And for unsatisfied housewives living in suburban America, to rurally located and isolated women who didn’t have the benefit of stumbling into a gay bar, to a college student crushing on her roommate, the pulps reassured her that she was not alone.

Happy Pride, everyone.

Eliza

The First Pride was a Riot?

“Homo Nest Raided, Queen Bees Are Stinging Mad.” That’s what the headline read in the New York Daily News on July 6th, 1969. Words like pranced, lisped, Queen Power, and gay atomic bomb described the events of the previous Friday when “the Girls of Christopher Street,” erupted in a “homosexual riot.”

Phew. That’s a lot to unpack.

You’ve probably read a lot of posts in the past few days identifying that “the first pride was a riot,” in reference to the Stonewall Rebellion (I prefer this wordage over Riot).

The Stonewall Rebellion has been mythologized as the origins of the gay liberation movement, but gay, transgender, and gender-variant people had been engaging in protest and direct actions against oppression for at least a decade by that time. Stonewall stands out as the biggest and most consequential example of a kind of event that was becoming increasingly common rather than as a unique occurrence. But Stonewall was part of a much longer trajectory in which LGBTQ people became increasingly organized and eventually radicalized in their efforts to improve the circumstances of their lives. In the words of historian Michael Bronski, “Stonewall was less a turning point than a final stimulus in a series of public altercations.” Just as one example, gay rights activist Frank Kameny, organized “Annual Reminder” demonstrations in front of Philadelphia’s Independence Hall starting in 1965.

But what about Stonewall?

The Stonewall Inn was a small, shabby, Mafia-run bar (as were many of the gay-oriented bars in New York when homosexuality and cross-dressing were a crime). State law threatened bars with the loss of their liquor licenses if they tolerated same-sex dancing or employed or served men who wore women's clothing. The Mafia was able to pay off local officials in order to keep their businesses running.

Stonewall drew a racially mixed crowd and was popular mainly for its location on Christopher Street near Sheridan Square where many gay men cruised for casual sex and because it frequented go-go boys, cheap beer, a good jukebox, and a crowded dance floor.

Police raids were relatively frequent and relatively routine and uneventful. But in the early morning hours of Saturday, June 28th, 1969, events departed from the familiar script when police cars pulled up outside the Stonewall Inn. Bottles, rocks, and other heavy objections were soon being hurled at the police.

Eyewitness accounts of what happened in the early hours of June 28th, 1969 differ. Some witnesses claim a butch lesbian resisted police attempts to put her in the paddy wagon while others note that African American and Puerto Rican women in the crowd—many of them gay or transgender—grew angry at seeing their friends being arrested and escalated the level of opposition to the police.

Both stories may be true. In any case, the targeting of gender-variant people, people of color, and poor people during a police action fit the usual patterns of police hostility. I’m a big fan of Comedy Central’s Drunk History, and their take on the events of Stonewall and Marsha P. Johnson’s involvement is probably one of my favorites.

The next night, thousands of people regrouped at the Stonewall Inn to protest; when the police arrived to break up the crowd, street fighting became even more violent than the night before.

One observer, Joseph Lovett, remembered the event:

“I watched Stonewall happen.  I was standing on the corner of 7th Ave and Christopher Street with a friend of mine when we heard this noise down at the Stonewall.  We looked at one another and we knew that life was changing at that moment.  The idea of drag queens fighting back against the police – this did not happen.  It was like Rosa Parks not giving up her seat … This was the revolution.”

The 5 years following Stonewall were a riot of initiatives and efforts. The appearance of gay pride parades in various cities across the country was perhaps the biggest coo. A mass gathering of people identifying themselves as queer, assembling in broad daylight in a public space, was virtually unheard of. It served as a powerful message to wider society that LGBTQ people were ready for respect.

As we continue this Summer of Self-Education, I highly recommend PBS’s treatment of the Stonewall Rebellion. It’s currently streaming for free here: https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexpe...

Prost,

Eliza

Don't Call Me Perfect

American cities are on fire. Police have arrested and injured members of the Free Press for doing their jobs. The man in the White House has called the protesters THUGS, while praising and encouraging anti-stay-at-home protesters to LIBERATE their respective states. “When the looting starts,” he tweeted, “the shooting stars.”

As I was wrapping up my latest novel, The Woman in 3B, I had planned on writing a blog post about the inspiration behind the novel’s title—it’s an homage to the book The Girls in 3-B, by Valerie Taylor, one of the more prolific authors during the Golden Age of lesbian pulp fiction in the 1950s and 1960s. I still do plan on writing that blog sometime this month, but I just can’t get my brain to currently cooperate.

Forgive me this indulgence. Writing this post is probably more for my mental health than anything else.

Winter Jacket and Don’t Call Me Hero, unequivocally my most popular books, take place in Minnesota. That’s not an accident. I grew up in northern Michigan, I went to college in Wisconsin, and I did my graduate work in Chicago. I lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin for about a decade or so after that. And during that time, I always considered Minnesota, especially the Twin Cities, as a midwestern utopia. They’d figured out marriage equality far earlier than the places where I lived. The state has historically been a haven for displaced populations like the Hmong or Somalis. Since 1976, the state has voted Blue in presidential elections. Natural beauty. Progressive politics. An education system that’s one of the best in the country. And last, but certainly not least, they’re Minnesota Nice.

I used to observe the goings on in that state and wonder to myself, how does Minnesota get it right all the time when the rest of the upper midwest was getting it so wrong?

And now…well…I guess nobody’s perfect.

Social media has become saturated in recent days with memes of famous Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. quotes, between those who claim “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that” or conversely, “A riot is the language of the unheard.”

But Dr. King also said this: “Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”

And this:  “When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.”

Just before his assassination in 1968, Dr. King spoke to striking sanitation workers in Memphis, Tennessee where he told the assembled audience, “What does it profit a man to be able to eat at an integrated lunch counter if he doesn’t have enough money to buy a hamburger.”

The FBI doesn’t collect a dossier on a non-controversial figure.

Popular history tends to whitewash the civil rights movement, and Dr. King in particular. We see black and white photographs of middle-class black men and women in their Sunday best, holding hands and singing the old gospel song, “We Shall Overcome.” But so much gets lost in this limited view. Dr. King wasn’t the only game in town. Let’s not forget El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X), Stokely Carmichael, or even the Black Panthers. The civil rights movement was far more radical than your high school US history textbook (or any number of Facebook memes) would have you believe.

The future Congressman, and one of my personal heroes, John Lewis, was one of the keynote speakers at the March on Washington in 1963. In his original prepared remarks, he wrote this: “We will march through the South, through the heart of Dixie, the way [General William Tecumseh] Sherman did. We shall pursue our own ‘scorched earth’ policy and burn Jim Crow to the ground—nonviolently. We shall fragment the South into a thousand pieces and put them back together in the image of democracy. We will make the action of the past few months look petty. And I say to you, WAKE UP AMERICA!”

But even if we consider Dr. King’s civil rights strategy of nonviolence, lost to history is the rest of that phrase: nonviolent direct action. Civil rights protesters didn’t just peacefully march. They put themselves in harm’s way. They openly defied Jim Crow laws. They knew they would get arrested. They knew they would be beaten. They even trained for that. And it was the violent backlash they endured, doled out by police and counter-protesters, that finally woke up middle (white) America. It forced the country-at-large to question if they had more in common with the fellow citizens asking for basic civil rights (please stop killing me) or with the violent segregationists.

And don’t even get me started on the history of the Chicano Movement, or Native American Rights, or even Queer Liberation. They don’t call it the Stonewall Riot for nothing (although I prefer the language of rebellion).

History is about change over time, but it’s also about continuity. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Stay safe, my friends. And let’s collectively wake up.

Eliza

The Woman in 3B - Chapter Preview

Happy Valentine’s Day!As a love letter to you all, I decided to release the first chapter of my forthcoming novel, The Woman in 3B. It’s still in the rough draft stages, but I hope you enjoy!

+ + +

Chapter One

The giggling gave them away.

Even over the constant roar of the 747's turbofan engines, I could hear the mischievous laughter of two people who knew they were doing something that they shouldn't have been doing. It happened on a least one flight a month where a couple thought they were being original and unpredictable and spontaneous by squeezing into an airplane bathroom that was barely large enough for one body, let alone two. 

I knocked briskly on the plastic bathroom door. The passengers were from my section of the plane, so it fell to me to get them back to their seats. 

“Excuse me." My voice interrupted their clandestine actions. "You’ll have to return to your seats. The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign.”

"Just a minute!" I heard a panicked, feminine voice. “I’ll be right out!”

"Don't worry," I drawled, unamused. "I'll wait. Right here."

Slight turbulence bumped and shook the plane, but my legs automatically tensed and I naturally shifted my weight from one foot to the other, like balancing on a boat at sea.

I heard the sounds of shuffling and frantic whispering before the bathroom door eventually opened.  A man exited, his dress shirt untucked in the front, followed by a woman in a similar state of fashion disrepair. They both ducked their heads and averted their gaze as they passed rather than acknowledge me. 

My eyes followed their walk of shame down the left aisle of the wide-body plane and back to their assigned seats. It made me feel like a disapproving school teacher, or worse—a mom. But it was my job to babysit these people until we returned safely to the ground.

Once I was satisfied that the couple were securely fastened into their seats again, I returned to my place in the narrow galley at the front of the plane. My friends and fellow flight attendants, Kent and Gemma, were just cleaning up after our final beverage service.  

“Do they really think no one will notice?” I huffed.

Kent, a small, angular man with fine blond hair and icy blue eyes frowned and wrinkled his nose. “I think that’s the point—for everyone to know.”

My other friend, Gemma, leaned against the beverage cart and sighed. “I don’t know," she said, twisting her thick braid. "I think it’s kind of romantic—not being able to keep your hands off each other; even on a two-hour flight.”

“Yeah, real romantic,” I scoffed. “Two hundred people listening to you have sex in a phone booth.”

I couldn’t be too upset with the couple, however. In fact, I was probably a little jealous.

I could understand the appeal. Takeoff was a little like foreplay—if you did it right—and once the plane reached a cruising altitude we were all seeking some kind of release. The engines hummed and turbines twirled. You coast, you glide, you bump along the tarmac. The wing flaps flex their reach. You pick up speed, teasing, not quite meaning it. Each little false acceleration builds the anticipation. 

The plane pauses on the landing strip. It snorts and spews like a muscle-corded bull about to charge a matador. A low rumbling, the plane rolls forward, tentative at first, as if afraid of its own power. The engines grow louder. You spurt forward. Another false start. You've been grounded for too long. 

The frustration grows. The engines scream to be free like a braying dog, pulling against the leash that tethers it in place, keeping it from what it most desires. The light touch on the breaks reminds you of the engines' explosive potential.

You sit. The plane shudders. The sounds of the engines grow louder again until they seem to swallow up all other noises. The voices in the plane are vanquished. It's so loud, you forget all other sounds. The force of takeoff pins you to your seat. The pressure crushes down on your body as the airplane climbs and climbs. It feels unending. Eternal. Your body folds in on itself.

And then it's over. You level out. The unbearable weight lessens. The noisy world returns. 

“Don’t mind her." Kent's voice interrupted my thoughts. "She’s still pining over Luscious Lara.”

“Am not!” I hotly protested.

My friends had accused me of being in a bad mood ever since breaking up with another flight attendant: Lara Pierson. I couldn’t really call it a breakup though since it hadn’t exactly been a relationship. Rather than seriously dating, it had been a thrilling month of stolen moments in-flight and fiery overnight stays on three-day flights, but it had ended nearly as suddenly as it had started. 

I hadn’t fallen in love with Lara, but she’d certainly been exciting. With my rigid flight schedule, I doubted I would ever repeat those same kinds of experiences unless it be with someone else on the crew. But my airline employed very few female pilots and even less queer female flight attendants. The ratio tended to favor straight women and gay men, even in the flight deck.

“I don’t even like women, and I would have hit that,” Kent proclaimed.

“We had fun," I said stiffly. "But now we’re on different schedules, so it’s over.”

“What does working the same line have to do with it? You know people do date people they don’t work with, right?” Gemma posed.

“When’s the last time you went on a non-work date, either of you?” I flipped the question on them.

“I don’t date,” Kent denied.

“I know; you only hook up with married, bi-curious pilots,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And what’s your excuse, Gemma?”

“I’m working on myself,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m focusing on my career and dating myself.”

Kent snorted. “Every time you say that I’m convinced your luggage is just sex toys and lube.”

“Be nice,” I admonished.

“Thank you, Alice,” Gemma said, sticking out her tongue at Kent.

“Besides, we all know that can’t be true,” I continued. “All that KY Jelly would have to be in 3-ounce bottles in a clear quart-sized bag to get through airport security.”

"Hey!" Gemma’s mouth dropped open in shock before snapping back and finally settling into a sour, displeased look. “I really hate you guys.”

The interphone in the front galley chimed and Kent was the first to reach it. The phones were located throughout the plane, allowing the crew to speak to each other in the various cabins, as well as to reach the flight deck and pilots when the door was shut. Because Kent was the purser—the senior flight attendant who was technically in charge of the other crew—he made all of the flight announcements and attended to passengers in the first class section.

"The captain's ready to begin landing,” Kent said upon hanging up the interphone. "Alice, you're on Crotch Watch in the Village," he told me, "and Gemma, check on the UM in 25C."

Gemma beamed. She loved working flights with an UM—an unaccompanied minor. She did a great job with the crumb crunchers, giving them honorary pilot wings and pumping them full of sugary treats before their final destination. 

"Oh, and check your lips and tips, ladies," Kent reminded us.

I'd heard the reference to our fingernails and lipstick before. It was a gentle reminder that despite the 12-hour days, limited sleep, and hasty meals grabbed during short layovers, we flight attendants should aim to be flawless at all times.

I walked up and down the center aisle while Kent made our final arrival announcement over the speaker system. Crotch Watch, also referred to as a groin scan, are the rounds that flight attendants make prior to liftoff and descent that ensures that all passengers’ seatbelts are on and properly fastened. I worked the Village on most flights, a reference to the Economy section of the plane.

Passengers dangled various garbage items in the center aisle for me to pick up, even though I’d already been through the cabin multiple times with a proper garbage bag. It was one of the many things that annoyed me about customers. Why couldn’t they remember to put their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment with the wheels out? Was it really so hard to hold on to their jacket until everyone had boarded? And couldn’t they be bothered to remove their headphones and earbuds when they ordered a drink?

I passed the couple who had tried to join the Mile High Club. They had their heads bent towards each other; the whispering and giggling hadn’t stopped from earlier. I stopped in the aisle and spun around to face them.

“I hope you enjoyed your flight,” I grinned innocently.

They looked up sharply at my words; both appeared a little like deer caught in headlights. I knew I was embarrassing them, but I couldn’t help teasing them, just a little.

The man was able to find his voice first: “Oh, uh, yes,” he sputtered. “Yes, it was very good, thank you.”

“A tip for the future?” I offered. “Wait until the drink trolley goes by before you try that little stunt again. The flight attendants will be too busy to notice you’re both gone.”

+ + +

The bingo card was in my mailbox in the flight attendant lounge. 

“Purser alert,” I heard Kent's quiet warning. Kent was technically a purser himself, but he also wasn’t a narc.

I discretely slipped the bingo card into my purse without looking at it. The competition was an open secret, but the higher ups at the airline probably wouldn't have been happy to acknowledge its existence. I’d have to look over my seat assignment and monthly challenges later.

Every month a new bingo card was anonymously delivered to the mailbox of every flight attendant across the company who paid their twenty-dollar entrance fee. Twenty-five different challenges, at various levels of difficulty, had to be accomplished and confirmed with a month's time. Some of the challenges could be fulfilled at the airport, but most occurred in-flight. At the end of the month—like the lottery—if no one had filled their card entirely, the pot of money continued to grow. 

I didn't recognize the woman about whom Kent had alerted me. I'd been with the same airline for nearly seven years, but it wasn't unusual not to know the other flight attendants with whom I worked. You could work really intimately with your assigned crew for a three-day trip and then you might never see them again. She was an older woman with silver hair—a senior mama—a term used by flight attendants, but not unkindly. Her kind were a rarity in my line of work. There were no longer age restrictions for flight crew, but you still needed to be strong enough to help passengers stow their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments. She didn't greet either Kent, Gemma, or myself, but went about her business of checking her mailbox before leaving the lounge.

I waited to be sure the older woman had exited the lounge for good before I retrieved the bingo card from my purse.

My eyes fell first to the number and letter printed at the top of the card. "Damn it," I mumbled.

Gemma and Kent crowded around me and the cardboard bingo card. "What's wrong? Did you get a shitty card this month?" Kent asked.

I curled my lip. "I'm not going be able to complete the seat-specific squares. They gave me 3B."

I thought the most difficult squares were those that were seat specific. Those were the challenges that could only be accomplished through the passenger sitting in that specific seat. 3B was in the first class section of the plane. I wasn't a rookie at my airline, but I also didn't have enough time in to be the senior flight attendant—the purser—on my flights. I typically worked the economy section on a three-person flight crew. 

Kent sighed loudly. "Fine,” he huffed. “I'll let you work first class on our flights this month. But don't make a habit out of this,” he warned with a shake of his finger. “Seniority should count for something."

"You're such a martyr," I teased. "But thank you."

“I don't know why you waste your time on that game. It's a total racket," Kent opined. "You might as well spend your entrance fee on scratch-off lotto tickets. It’s less work, too.”

“It’s harmless," I stubbornly defended. "And it keeps me entertained. I’d probably hang myself during beverage service without it.”

“I think it’s kind of mean,” Gemma spoke up. “Spilling a drink on someone on purpose?”

“It’s not like it’s hot coffee, Gemma,” I continued to defend myself and the game. “It’s just a little innocent fun.”

I didn’t particularly like the idea of the bingo card either, but the financial incentives were enough to make me momentarily forget the questionable ethics of it all. The winnings would be enough to pay off my one year of ill-advised college attendance. The only thing I'd really learned in my year of extra schooling was that not everyone was cut out for college. I wished my high school guidance counselor would have told me that; it would have saved me about twenty thousand dollars.

“I still don’t like it,” she frowned. 

Gemma had a singular talent for making me feel guilty, even if I hadn’t done anything wrong. She was a rule follower, unbending and disapproving. I couldn’t understand why she’d become a flight attendant; she acted more like a Sunday school teacher.

"What are they having you do this month?" Gemma asked. She didn’t drop her defensive posture, but the judgmental look on her round face softened. 

For someone so concerned about rules and regulations, I thought Gemma secretly loved it when I first got my bingo card. She was less excited, however, when I actually began to complete the tasks. 

"Some of the usual,” I noted. “Bump into a passenger when there's no turbulence. Use a fake accent all flight. Wear a life preserver until someone says something.” I wrinkled my nose as I read the next task.  “Assist a puking passenger is the center square again."

"Stop withholding," Kent censured. "What are the naughty challenges?"

I scanned over the twenty-five bingo squares and their twenty-five unique tasks. I read aloud the red colored squares that typically indicated a more challenging task: "Get a passenger's phone number. Get a passenger to buy you a meal." I stopped when my eyes fell on the next red square. 

Gemma read aloud the square on which I'd paused: "Join the Mile High Club?!"

"At least it's not seat specific," I weakly remarked, despite how my stomach churned.

"Whoever comes up with these challenges has gone way too far this time," she huffed. Gemma hugged herself and continued to look upset. "It's basically prostitution."

"It's just a game," I tried to reason with my friend. "I'd never do something I wasn't comfortable with. I'll just aim for completing one row so I make my money back. Then I'll hope for a better card next month.”

“It's totally sexist,” Kent piled on.

“Oh really? How so?” I posed. Kent's complaint was a new one. I was intrigued to hear his argument.

“The challenges are much easier for women to achieve,” he argued. “How would a male flight attendant ever accomplish the Mile High Club task?”

“You mean how would a straight male flight attendant do that," I chuckled. "You get so much ass, Kent, don’t even deny it. I should be the one complaining about bias. As a lesbian, I’m at a complete disadvantage.”

“If you’d stop being so damn picky,” Kent proclaimed, “you’d probably have the whole thing won by now. Lower your standards, honey," he advised. "People do it all the time for less.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going to whore myself out to win at bingo.”

“You’re not winning bingo; you’re winning money,” he pointed out. “Cold. Hard. Cash.”

Gemma interrupted our juvenile bickering before it could escalate. Conflict made her itch: “You guys want to do something tonight?”

“Can’t," Kent clipped. "I’m having spaghetti." He wiggled the fingers on his right hand in parting. "See you grandmas tomorrow.”

Kent scooted out of the flight crew lounge, leaving Gemma and me on our own.

“Kent sure eats a lot of pasta," Gemma observed with a wistful sigh. "I wish I could have carbs.”

Gemma was perpetually on the quest to lose five pounds. I thought her curves were sexy, but I could appreciate her concern. In our profession, every little extra bit on your body added to the overall claustrophobia of the galley.

I cocked an eyebrow at my friend and laughed. “You know that’s not what he’s talking about, right?”

“Huh?”

"He’s probably hanging out with one of his married pilot friends. Spaghetti is code," I supplied. "Straight until they get wet. Straight until they get a few drinks in them."

“Oh. Oh!" Gemma blinked rapidly as the realization set in. "That makes so much more sense."

I couldn't understand Kent's near-obsession with sleeping with married pilots. For one, they were married. How could your conscience ever forgive that kind of behavior? For the other, pilots were notoriously cocky. Confidence was attractive, but most of the pilots I'd met over the years were ego-maniacs. 

How many pilots does it take to change a light bulb? Just one. He holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.

"What are you doing tonight?" Gemma asked. "Are you having 'pasta,' too?” She highlighted the euphemism with air quotes.

I snorted at the suggestion. “Not likely. The only pasta I’m eating lately comes out of a little blue box.”

+ + +

“Honey, I’m home.”

I shut my apartment door with my foot since my hands were busy with grocery bags. I only went shopping once a month, mostly for non-perishables and a gallon of milk whose expiration date I considered as a recommendation, not the end all, be all. 

My apartment wasn't much, but I didn't spend too much time at home anyway. At least I actually had a home though. I knew some people who had crashpads around the country instead of renting a proper apartment. Crashpads could be a house or an apartment with bunkbeds in each room. For a couple hundred bucks a month you could have a place to stay if you weren’t keen on the commuting life. I had lucked out that the city I lived in—Detroit—was a central hub for my airline. I knew of others whose home airport was Detroit, but they commuted to a different city in a different state to go home. They always seemed overtired and overstressed. Commuting took a lot of planning and your schedule could be ruined with a simple weather delay. Even without commuting, the hours as a flight attendant were long. In a month, I typically spent between 65 to 90 hours in the air with another 50 hours of preparing planes for flight, completing reports, and other grounded tasks.  

I dropped off the bags on the short countertop island that functioned as both a food prep area and my dining table. I left the bags on the counter for the moment.

“You hungry, Honey?”

I didn’t expect a verbal response, but my pet turtle enthusiastically splashed in her tank. I’d had Honey—a red-eared slider—for close to a decade. My job kept me from owning more traditional pets unless I paid to have them kenneled or hired a pet sitter. That was money I didn’t have. Honey was the perfect compromise. She didn’t require much maintenance beyond occasional feedings and cleaning her aquarium. Plus, she had loads more personality than a fish.

I dropped a handful of floating food pellets into her tank and watched her hunt down each piece of food with erratic precision. She was clumsy—smashing her open mouth against the clear glass walls—but persistent. No piece of food went un-devoured.

"How was your day?" I asked. I leaned in close to the aquarium glass and watched her zip across the water's surface. I tapped lightly against the glass, but she was in hunting mode and paid little attention to me. "Get some good sunbathing done today? Take a dip in your pool? Must be nice; I was in recycled air all day while you're on a permanent vacation." 

With Honey fed, I started the task of feeding myself. I didn’t have occasion for eating at home too often. The airline paid for most of my food since I was on the clock during most meal times. I cooked a little though; my life would have turned into too much of a sad cliché if I relied on frozen microwavable dinners and cereal. My conversation with Gemma had inspired me to make Italian that night—homemade meatballs on top of thick-noodled spaghetti, swimming in a rich marinara sauce. I'd just settled down at the kitchen island to tuck into my meal and a glass of red wine, when my phone rang and my sister's name and number popped up on the screen. 

Dawn was a few years older than me. While I hadn't made it through college and had boomeranged back into my parents' house, Dawn had achieved practically everything she had set out to do. I was a single, gay, college dropout who lived in an 800-square foot apartment in Romulus, Michigan while she was married with kids and lived in a big house in the affluent suburbs.

"Are you coming to Peter's swim meet on Saturday?" she asked when I answered the phone. 

"I’m on call on Saturday,” I shared, “so probably not.” Although we had days off that scheduling couldn’t touch—called Golden Days—on some off days of the week we had to be flexible. An on-call day might eventually turn into an actual day off, but if someone called in sick or had a last-minute personal emergency, we had to make ourselves available and get to our home base airport to fill in.

"But you missed his last swim meet, too!" she protested.

"He's five," I deadpanned. "How much of a competition is it really?"

"That's not the point and you know it," she sternly chastised. "You're missing out on family time."

"I'm not doing it on purpose," I insisted. "It's just not going to work out this time."

"It never works out," she huffed.

My voice pitched up. "Because your kids insist on doing stuff on the days that I'm working!"

"Can't you switch with someone? Or pretend to come down with a cold?"

I tugged at my hair in frustration. "You know it doesn't work that way,” I growled into my phone. “I can't flake on my work. I've got responsibilities."  

"I don't know why you can't just skip," she openly complained. "It's not like you're curing cancer."

"I know. I'm just a flight attendant," I bit out as my frustration grew. "Nothing special or important about that."

"You know I didn't mean it like that, Alice.”

"I gotta go," I said, my voice suddenly flat. "My dinner's getting cold."

I hung up without waiting for my sister's goodbye. I knew she would only continue to text me the rest of the night, waffling between apologetic and passive aggressive, so I turned off my phone entirely. I swirled my fork aggressively through my spaghetti noodles and took a bite. I'd lost my appetite, but I had to eat. And my already thin pocketbook wouldn't forgive me for letting good food go to waste.

New Year, New Novel(s)

Happy 2020—we made it!

I’m at my laptop in my dining room, having a cup of coffee out of my favorite Frozen coffee mug, so now seems like the perfect time for an update.

If you follow me on the various social media platforms, you’ll know that I’m pretty geeked about the recent release of Don’t Call Me Hero as an audiobook. The original seed was planted in 2018 and now—over a year later—the book is finally live. I learned a lot during this experience and my stomach was in knots practically the entire time. You should have seen me sweating and squirming and hiding my face as I listened to the first 15-minutes of the novel so I could provide my narrator, Lori Prince, with initial feedback before she recorded the rest of the book. Lori was an absolute pro, and I’m so happy I contracted her for this first experience. She basically held my hand through the whole process since I was unfamiliar with the many discrete steps that go into producing an audiobook.

Now that the book is live, and many of you have listened and enjoyed, the next question I’ve been receiving is if I’ll be turning the rest of the series into audiobooks, if Lori Prince will continue to do my narration, or maybe even if Winter Jacket might be next. At this point, I’m still in the wait-and-see period. As an independent writer, I’ve traditionally done everything myself. I design my own book covers (for better or for worse), I do my own editing (for better or for worse), and I promote myself on social media. Making my first audiobook was terrifying because I was trusting someone else to narrate the book on my behalf and paying them to do so. When I write a traditional book, there’s no overhead costs involved and I get to keep a larger percentage of my royalties. In other words, I have to wait to see if I sell enough copies of the audiobook to break even.

I want to be completely transparent about the price of this audible book. As someone who likes to keep ebook and hardcopy book prices low, low, low, the purchase price for the audiobook makes me wince. Something I learned while going through this process is that authors don’t get to set their own prices on audible platforms! Audible, Amazon, and iTunes make their own decisions based on how long the book is and what others in the genre have sold for. Each retailer independently prices the book, which is why you’ll find it priced differently at the various audible retailers. I have absolutely no control over the price of this book. I do have a limited number of promo codes in the US and UK audible store, so if you really wanted to purchase this audible book, but it would be a financial hardship to do so, drop me an email. But also, you can always sign up for a 30-day trial membership with Audible, get the book, and then cancel your membership when that month is over. Or, maybe you discover that you actually really like this audio option and that 30-day trial becomes your new favorite thing.

Also, I want to hear from you! Do you want more of this series? Do you like Lori Prince’s take on Cassidy and Julia? Should Elle and Hunter be next? Where and why do you listen to audiobooks? Who are your favorite lesfic narrators?

I’m still (slowly) churning out words for my current work in progress, The Woman in 3B. I’m immersed in the banter between my two new characters, Alice and Anissa. I’m enjoying the slow burn as they get to know each other, and am anticipating the eventual heartache when one of them screws everything up. I don’t have a release date yet for this new standalone, but will update you as we get closer to the finish line.

If you’re not following me on social media yet, you should! I post sneak peeks of whatever I’m working on and pictures of my cat!

I’ve seen so many friends posting Resolutions about treating themselves better in the new year and wanting to be nicer to themselves. And what better way to be kind to yourself than to take moments for yourself? Let’s take time to fill the well this year. Let’s read more in 2020.

Stay warm,

Eliza

Just in time for the holigays

Welp, I did it. Well, not me, exactly. Lori Prince, specifically.

Over the past few years, readers have contacted me about turning any of my novels into an audiobook. First, I hadn’t realized that listening to books was such a big deal (I’m out of the loop, ya’ll). And second, I was terrified.

You probably know by now that I’m an independent writer. It’s something that I’m fiercely proud of and also something over which I’m fiercely protective. I do my own edits, I make my own book covers, I made my own website, I promote myself online. Maybe it’s my Type-A personality or my slight control-freak tendencies, but I couldn’t imagine handing over one of my books and letting someone else read it out loud and record it. There was no way I was going to do it myself, but I was also terrified at the thought of someone else being in charge of my characters’ voices and interactions. But then, publishers started contacting me for the audio rights to my books and I realized I needed to do something. I needed to make an audio book myself.

So I did it. And, wow, am I glad I did.

Lori Prince, my narrator, was a dream to work with. She was so patient and so accommodating and so helpful throughout the review process. I was so nervous about getting it right for you guys because you all deserve nothing but the best.

And ya’ll I’m SO IN LOVE with Cassidy. I want to shout it from the mountains. It’s honestly the most surprising outcome of this entire adventure. We all lust love Julia, let’s not getting it twisted. But Cassidy, at least for me, is the star of this audiobook. She’s goofy and vulnerable and awkward, and under Lori Prince’s careful care she completely comes alive. Am I allowed to be obsessed with my own characters? Because I am.

Everything has been submitted, so now we wait. The book will be made available on Audible, iTunes, and Amazon shortly. Keep an eye on my social media accounts as the book will go live within 10-14 days.

I hope you’ll take this next step with me as I venture tentatively, but excitedly, into the strange new world of audiobooks. And let me know what you think!

Stay warm,

Eliza

What's up next?: The Woman in 3B

I’ve been spending a lot of time in airports these past few weeks. And I’ve had a lot of long layovers and delayed or canceled flights. And it got me thinking about the life of people who are professional travelers or who work for the airlines. And that, kittens, is the genesis of my current Work in Progress, The Woman in 3B.

I’ll be providing sneak previews and more specifics about the book’s plot between now and the finish date, so be sure to follow me on the various social media outlets if you’re not already doing so. The title, although referring to an airplane seat, is also an homage to a classic lesbian pulp novel, The Girls in 3B, published in 1959. The book’s author, Valerie Taylor, was one of the most prolific authors of the Golden Age of lesbian fiction in the 1950s and 60s. Her first novel, Whisper Their Love (1957), sold over 2 million copies! Consequently, she used her earnings from the first book to divorce her abusive husband and move herself and her three sons to Chicago, which became the setting for many of her subsequent works. The Girls in 3B was one of those novels.

The book features three young women who pool their resources to rent an apartment (Unit 3B) in Chicago, Illinois. The original 1959 backcover copy summarized the story like this:

“They came to the city fascinated, frightened – hungering after life with that desperate, head-long impatience of the very young…There was Annice…Bright, curious full of untried passion, she let Alan drag her into his beat-generation world of parties, jazz, booze, marijuana and sex. And Pat…she was big and blonde and built for love, but she was saving herself for marriage. Until she met her boss. Right from the beginning Pat knew she’d do anything for him – anything. And Barby…She was the most vulnerable. Men terrified her and for a good reason. When she finally fell in love it was with a woman.”

The novel follows the stories of these three very different women as they navigate their new surroundings. It follows trope after trope, particularly the belief that queer women are only “that way” because of past trauma or abuse at the hands of men. Despite its warts and shortcomings, however, much like Claire Morgan’s The Price of Salt (1952), the novel has the distinction of being one of the few to provide a neutral, if not happy ending, for the queer women in the story. They don’t marry a man, or go to prison or an asylum, or kill anyone or themselves…all ‘classic’ lesbian pulp fiction endings from this time period.

I can assure you that the characters in my upcoming novel will not marry a man, or go to prison or an asylum, or kill anyone or themselves either.

Cheers,

Eliza

One Little Secret

I’m waiting for my flight back to the States, so I thought I’d write a quick note about my latest release, One Little Secret,  book four in the Don’t Call Me Hero series. 

As I noted in an earlier post, my plan for the DCMH series is to transition to a police-procedural/mystery-crime solving series. This means two things 1) the focus of each novel will not only be about Cassidy and Julia’s ever-evolving relationship and 2) expect many more books in this series. 

I have much more in store for these characters, so I hope you’ll keep reading. 

My immediate plan is a stand-alone novel next, followed by DCMH5. Because book #4 ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, I don’t want to keep you waiting for too long. 

I hope you’ll keep reading and reviewing and let me know what you think about this latest installation! 

prost,

Eliza 

 

Preview: One Little Secret

Wager

I have been the victim of creative suffering. I know what it feels like to put your faith in someone, only for them to let you down.

I felt, rather than saw, Julia’s hand brush at the hair closest to my temple.

“You’re giving yourself frown lines, dear.”

I waved her hands away in irritation and leaned forward on the couch.

I’d been here before with the same stupid optimism despite how many times I’d been hurt. I should have known better. Experience told me it would end like this, but I’d naively believed that this time would be different. I should have known it wouldn’t last.

Her steady, rational voice tried to reach me: “It’s only a game.”

“Tell that to my heart,” I bitterly replied.

The Minnesota Vikings had been coming up with new and creative ways to break my heart ever since I was a kid. The string of heartache had begun years before my birth. In 1988, running back Darrin Nelson bungled a pass on the goal line, which would have beat Washington. Gary Anderson in 1999 hadn’t missed a kick all year—a perfect 35 of 35. So, of course, he missed a 38-yard field goal. 2001 had been a total embarrassment of a game when we lost 41-0 to the Giants. A Brett Favre pass was intercepted in 2010 with 15 seconds left to play. And more recently, Blair Walsh had missed a 27-yard chip shot in the 2016 Wild Card game.

“You shouldn’t give up on them,” she told me.

I pressed my lips together, feeling empty and disappointed. We trailed, 23-24 with ten seconds remaining in the game. No time outs. The ball was placed on our own 39-yard line. We were 61 yards away from the end zone, and our quarterback didn’t have that kind of arm.

I rubbed my hands over my face. “I can guarantee they’re not going to win this one.”

“Wanna bet?”

I turned away from the television, briefly. “What’d you have in mind?”

Her features were impassive. “Vikings win, I get what I want. Saints win, you win.”

“And what do you want?” I asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “You in my bed. However I want you.”

I swallowed thickly. “And if the Saints win?”

She raised a perfect eyebrow. “What do you want, dear?”

I didn’t have to think on it. “Same.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips. “Do you want to shake on it?”

There was no time for such formalities. The home crowd roared as the center hiked the football. 

Case Keenum dropped back and then stepped up into the pocket. The ball released from his hand and traveled 25-yards down the field. 

I leaned forward on the couch, my hands clasped together. 

Stefon Diggs leapt into the air and came down with the ball. A white-shirted opponent lunged for his body to make the game-ending tackle. 

He missed. 

There was no one between Diggs and the end zone. 

“Oh my God,” I muttered in complete disbelief. 

The television announcers began to yell as Diggs raced down the field. 30 yards. 20. 10. No one was going to catch him.

“Oh my God.”

Stefon Diggs stood in the purple end zone. Game over. The Vikings had won.

“Oh my God.” My brain had broken.

The couch cushions shifted beside me as Julia pulled herself to her feet. She took a few steps before finally addressing me. “Bedroom,” she commanded. “And bring your jersey.”

 

Julia’s bedroom was completely dark, with the exception of pale moonlight that slithered through the slats of the window blinds.

“On the bed,” she instructed with a curt nod. “And take off your clothes.”

I pulled my jersey over my head. My ponytail caught on the neckline and nearly tugged free from its rubber band. “Not wasting any time, eh?”

“I don’t believe I asked for any comments from you.” Her tone was cool and indifferent. 

I dropped my jersey to the bedroom floor without another syllable. I wouldn’t be needing any of my clothes; the chill in her attitude had made me hot all over. I’d actually come to love losing these bets. 

I struggled with the nylon knot that held up my old sweatpants. I probably should have donated or thrown them away. The elastic waistband had long ago given up and the screen-printed ‘Marines’ along the left leg was cracked and peeling.

“I don’t have all night, Miss Miller,” she snapped. 

Her impatience belied what was to follow. I knew she was going to take her time with me. She was going to make me unravel. She was going to make me come undone, again and again, but deny my orgasm until I was a liquid pool of desperation.

I abandoned the challenge of untying my sweatpants and wiggled them past my hips instead. The waistband dropped to my knees, and I inelegantly pulled my feet and ankles free of the offending item. I knew Julia was carefully studying my every move, but she remained silent while I struggled with the elementary task of undressing. 

Only a white tank top remained, which I wore as a barrier between my skin and the scratchy material of the football jersey. My erratic tug of the shirt over my head simultaneously freed my hair from the rubber band that had formerly contained its wavy chaos in a slightly less chaotic ponytail.

“Bed,” Julia sternly commanded, as if I’d forgotten the purpose of our being there. 

Another bratty retort danced at the end of my tongue, but I suppressed the urge to further annoy my girlfriend. Her tongue could be far more pleasant than mine. 

I crawled onto our shared mattress. I still thought of the apartment and its furniture as Julia’s, but it was beginning to feel more like ours instead of only hers. My hands and knees disturbed the tautness of the duvet cover as I traveled to the center of the bed. When I had lived on my own, I had never bothered to make my bed. It had probably been a micro-aggression against the rigidity of military life when I’d been inspected for the crispness of my hospital corners to the cleanliness of my fingernails. Cohabitating with Julia came with its own regulations—dirty dishes in the sink, cleaning my hair out of the shower drain, coasters under my beer bottles—but the rewards of picking up after myself far outweighed the inconvenience.

I tossed a look over my shoulder, even though I had no doubt that Julia continued to inspect me. Our eyes briefly locked before her gaze raked over my naked form like hot coals. Her voice may have exuded icy control, but her wild eyes were an inferno.

I knew what she saw. The fine muscles of my triceps as I held myself up. The length of slender calves. The swell of my backside. The gap between my thighs. The scars across my back from a dirty bomb. The streaming moonlight felt like a spotlight on my imperfections.

I shifted my position with the intention of getting off of my hands and knees, but a single-worded command had me freezing in place.

“Stay,” Julia demanded.

I remained in the vulnerable position, feeling a little like livestock on the auction block. Objectively, I knew my body was attractive and fit. I religiously worked out, but no amount of running or swimming could ever wipe clean the canvas. Because of those scars I doubted I would ever feel completely at ease in my skin, even in front of Julia. 

Julia’s steps were silent on the bedroom carpeting; I could neither hear nor see her approach. I visibly shivered at the sensation of a single finger tracing the length of my spinal column. Her touch was fluid and light; she took her time from the base of my neck to just above my tailbone. She was the only non-medical personnel to have touched my back since Afghanistan.

Despite my discomfort, a quiet sigh escaped my lungs.

“On your back, Miss Miller.” Gone was the previous sharpness. In its place, Julia’s tone had softened, rounded, and warmed. The gentle command surrounded me like a blanket.

I maneuvered on the mattress until I was on my back with my head toward the headboard. Julia’s caramel gaze meandered from my face to my feet. She drank in every inch of my naked flesh, entirely on display for her. I watched the tip of her tongue travel from one corner of her mouth to the other. I should have withered under her pointed stare, but the open desire with which she looked at me only heightened my arousal.

“Can I trust you to keep your hands where I want them?” she asked.

“Probably not,” I retorted. 

My tone probably held too much cheekiness for her liking. I watched her nostrils slightly flare and her eyes narrow in displeasure. 

“That’s a pity,” she clucked. “We’ll have to do something about that, otherwise I’m afraid you might spoil my plans for you.”

Julia silently stalked to her clothing bureau and opened the top drawer. Her hands disappeared from my view before producing a number of colorful patterned neck scarves. I primarily associated them with Julia hiding bite marks. On those occasions she would chastise my over eagerness, claiming she was too old for hickies—or at least those that were publicly visible.

Julia floated two scarves in my direction. They landed beside me on the mattress. “Tie one around either wrist, and then tie yourself to the bed frame.”

I passed the woven silk through my hands before securing the material around my wrists. I had hoped that Julia would have restrained me herself, but there was also something exciting about doing it to myself. I knew she would be displeased if the knots came undone, so I focused on doing a good job. The silk scarves were slippery, but I managed a tight knot around each wrist. I was only able to tie my left hand to the bed frame, however. Julia would have to complete the job. 

When I looked up for further instructions, my breath caught in my throat. In the time it had taken me to bind my wrists and semi-tie myself to the bed, Julia had slipped out of her t-shirt and yoga pants and into my football jersey. From the look of it, she was only wearing the jersey. Her arms swam in the abundant material, and the bottom hem stopped just above her upper thighs. The shirt was too large for her lithe frame, but it had never looked so good. 

“You’re lucky I’m over here,” I throatily warned. I tugged at my constraints for added effect. 

Julia’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “That would be a violation of the terms of our agreement,” she remarked.

“I don’t remember signing a contract, Counselor.”

Julia’s hard gaze put me in my place. Her hands rested on her hips, causing the jersey material to creep up her exposed thighs.

“Why do you insist on defying me, Miss Miller? I thought we had an agreement.”

“I’m sorry,” came my meek apology.

She dropped her hands to her sides. “No touching,” she told me. “Or I’ll really give you something to be sorry about.”

I nearly asked what I wasn’t supposed to touch until she joined me on the mattress. Her naked thighs brushed against my legs. She lightly perched across my bare abdomen, her thighs straddling my torso. I was tempted to reach out and touch her with my one free hand, but I instead remained still and permitted her to tie the scarf attached to my right hand to the bedframe. 

I tested the strength of the knots by flexing my forearms and tugging at my bonds. I pulled at my ties until the bedframe groaned. Julia’s headboard was perfectly designed for these kinds of activities. The dark wood was of sturdy construction, so I didn’t worry about snapping the wooden slats.

“I’ll ask you not to ruin those scarves,” Julia interrupted my experiment. “They’re vintage and very expensive.”

“Then why use them?” I challenged.

Julia curled her lip. “Because I don’t do cheap, my dear.”

I had a self-depreciating comment at the ready, but I smartly left it alone. 

She rested her weight more solidly on my abdomen. I hissed when I realized she wore no underwear beneath my purple and yellow jersey. Her naked skin came in contact with my stomach.

A needy whine ripped through my lips. “God, you’re such a tease.”

“And you’re always impatient,” she darkly returned. “I thought you might have learned some willpower by now.”

I bucked up against her, but with no real desire to break free. Losing had never felt so good.

She dragged her manicured nails down the valley of my naked breasts. “I’ll pay attention to you in time, my dear, but first I should be rewarded for winning this bet.”

An inquiry about the nature of her reward was on my lips, but she answered my unspoken question with her body. The mattress dipped on either side of me as she scooted up closer to the headboard. She held onto the top of the headboard and slowly lowered herself onto my waiting mouth.

I heard her quiet grunt when my tongue made first contact with her naked sex. She raised herself up again so she hovered just above my outstretched tongue. She lowered herself, only slightly, so I could barely get a taste. 

I held my tongue rigid while she raised herself up and down. Up and down. My tongue slipped in and out of her clenching pussy. She ground her clit against my mouth in wide and loose circles. 

If my hands had been free, I would have clamped tight to her twitching thighs and pulled her down to me. Instead, I had no choice but to grip the spindles of the headboard. I frantically moved my tongue and lips, but I was under no disillusionment; she was in complete control. She controlled the pace, the angle, the pressure. 

The stiff mesh material of the football jersey scratched against my nose. I loved it when she wore my clothes, but at that moment, I needed the football jersey to be gone. I wanted to see her naked body floating above me. I wanted to watch the bounce of her naked breasts as she ground her clit into my mouth. Instead, I focused on her parted lips and upturned nose and dark, flashing eyes.

She gasped when I thrust my tongue up as far as I could reach. I moaned for more at the slight tang of her arousal.

Julia dropped the headboard and held onto my breasts for leverage. My aching nipples were starved for attention, but this wasn’t about me. I lapped hungrily at her seeping slit. My saliva combined with her arousal, and I could feel the wetness spreading across my face. There was nothing dainty or delicate about this. It was sloppy and messy—everything Julia was not beyond the bedroom doors.

Her breathing became erratic and her movements against my mouth were more deliberate. God, I wanted to rip through those damn vintage scarves that held me prisoner, flip her onto her back, and fuck her into the mattress until she screamed my name. I hated this useless, helpless feeling, but I also knew I didn’t have a choice. Julia had won our wager, and I would have to play by her rules. 

“There,” she panted. “Right. There.”

I clenched the wooden spindles of the headboard and heard them creak from the pressure. The scarves bit into my wrists. I licked harder against her clit and hummed into her pussy. 

She gripped my breasts tighter and ground her lower body more solidly against my mouth. I heard her quiet curse and felt her body shudder: “Fuck, Cassidy.”

Her movements gradually slowed as she rode out her orgasm. I could feel her body tense and twitch from sensitivity when I continued to lick against her.

“Enough, enough,” she begged off.

“What? That was too easy; I can do this all night,” I insisted. I opened my mouth wide and stretched out my jaw, which had started to become sore. But I would never admit that to her.

She patted her hand against my collarbone. “At ease, soldier,” she murmured. “Let me catch my breath.”

Julia dismounted me, one long leg at a time, and rolled onto her side to lie beside me on the bed. One hand rested in the now-sweaty valley between my breasts and the other tangled itself in my hair. She pressed the entire length of her body against mine, and I smiled when I heard her deeply contented sigh.

My eyes fluttered shut and I loudly exhaled, appreciating being able to take a full breath again now that my mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

“Whoops.”

I cracked one eye open. “Whoops?” I curiously repeated.

“I seem to have mangled your, uh, breasts,” she said, amusement in her tone.

Still tied to the bed, I lifted my head as best as I could to see to what she was referring. The normally pale skin of my breasts were flushed an angry red. Her grip on my breasts had been tight, but in the heat of the moment, I hadn’t realized how hard she’d been holding onto me. I could practically see her fingerprints inlaid into my skin.

“What did you do to me?” I squeaked. “I’m disfigured!”

“Oh, hush,” she chastised. “It’s not that bad.”

“But I bruise easily!” I complained.

She nuzzled her nose against the side of my face. “Yes, but just think of how pleasant those memories will be, dear, when you see those bruises.”

Her fingers began to work loose the knots at my wrists. All of my tensing and pulling had managed to tighten them even more, threatening to cut off my circulation. I was surprised my hands weren’t the same color as my Vikings jersey.

When Julia finally removed the scarves at my wrists, I rubbed at the tender skin.

“Loyalty, darling,” she purred into my ear. “Let that be a lesson.”

I’d never been a strong pupil in school, but it was one lesson I wasn’t going to forget anytime soon. 

Sunscreen & Coconuts: Available Now!

The long wait is over--my latest standalone, Sunscreen & Coconuts, is finally available.

I originally titled the novel Christmas in the Caribbean with a slated release date of December 2017, but as the winter holiday came and went, it became clear that I needed to find a new title.

It's been admittedly difficult to write since November of 2016. I find myself tumbling down the latest news cycle rabbit hole, and it takes a while to claw myself out and get in the right mental-space to write about romance and happy endings. That's one of the major reasons you'll find Sunscreen & Coconuts to be a lighter read than what's typical of my books. There's certainly drama before our heroines can get on the path towards a happy ending, but sometimes you need a fun novel to help escape reality, if only for a few hours.

So what's next? I typically take a month off between a book release and starting a new WIP, but I've found some good momentum this past month, so I'm jumping right back into things. Next up, DCMH 4. 

I hope you enjoy Sunscreen & Coconuts. Make a drink, find a beach, and give yourself a deserved break. 

prost,

Eliza