Strings

“All I want for my birthday is to get fucked unconscious with no strings attached.”
~~~~~
“What a coincidence. I’ve got a big dick, a bar tab, and the local cab company’s number on speed dial.” The guy’s eyes bore into me from behind the dark lenses, and I have a momentary lapse in vaginal secretion control.
~~~~~
Fuck him like a Roman numpho whore with a flaming crotch, let him put it out with a cum spritzer, then run like hell.
~~~~~
How the hell do you get goose juice out of a car’s upholstery?
~~~~~
I watch the ball of his silver stud going to work, beating on my little bald girl in her boat.
~~~~
I’m so wet, I could fuck a cantaloupe and three banans without batting an eyelash.
~~~~
Taking his pink soldier all the way down into my pudding trench is no problem.
~~~~
It’s hard to concentrate with his breath tickling my ear and his beautiful cock clubbing my meat curtains.

“Holy anal mishaps, Batman"

The cooter engine revs. Pretty sure she sprung an oil leak.
~~~~
When he finished tongue-drilling me, he looked like he’d eaten a gourmet glazed donut.

At least our illicit communications provide vivid fantasy stimulation while I’m churning my butter alone in my bunk at night.
~~~
An onslaught of quim quivers seizes me.
~~~
…flood of melted muff butter leaks down my legs.
~~~
“I’m gonna fill up this sweet little box with hot Toddy.”

And my beaver is back to its old juicy tricks
~~~~
The guy has a gorgeous, rough voice that gives me cooter quivers.
~~~~
The metal nub in his tongue tickles me. I caress it, and a flood of cooch juice pours out the freshly opened dam. I swear I’m gonna start believing in that pheromone shit. Every time this guy comes around, my pussy leaks. Lucky for me, he’s the worst plumber in town.
~~~~
the sincerity in his face incites my twat into mass production of rainbow cum bullets. I’ve got one in the chamber, and at least a couple more waiting anxiously in the magazine. Ready, aim, fire!
~~~~
I reach behind me and cup his rock-hard package. Good old ’gina’s got another flood in the basement.
~~~~
I climb aboard the sixty-nine train, lowering my muff to his hungry lips while I get down and dirty with his man sausage.
~~~~
I’m about to blow, and I want your man chowder inside me when I do.”

“Todd Armstrong, you pull my strings and make me sing. You tie me in knots with your balls and cock. You keep on diddling, and I’ll soon be piddling. Spraying this stage with my love rage. Make me come, you gorgeous fuck bum.”

“All I want for my birthday is to get fucked

“Todd Armstrong, you pull my strings and make me sing. You tie me in knots with your balls and cock. You keep on diddling, and I’ll soon be piddling. Spraying this stage with my love rage. Make me come, you gorgeous fuck bum.”

“All I want for my birthday is to get fucked unconscious with no strings attached.” Not a lie.

“What a coincidence. I’ve got a big dick, a bar tab, and the local cab company’s number on speed dial.”

I take his cock—all ten inches—balls deep. My breath rushes. I try to quiet it. I’m fucking dizzy. Lips hit my neck, and chills climb my spine. Teeth graze as he rocks me to a new song, a Shades-and-Letty lullaby.

We’re made of the same primal instinct that drives people to feed, fuck, and fight. Tonight, we are The Rock.

Pull my strings
Make me sing
Tie me in knots
You’re all I’ve got
No matter what I do I’m stuck with you
Bound to your heart by unbreakable strings
When I’m with you, my soul has wings
Whichever way the pendulum swings
Let’s see what a life together brings

I self-published an

I self-published an urban fantasy trilogy last year. I spent four years writing it. I poured all kinds of money, time, and energy into that bugger. I did everything “They” tell you to do: blog tours, paid advertising, securing reviews, professional editing and cover design, book signings, pimping, pimping, pimping. I put way too much cash into making my books as perfect as they could be.

They tanked.

Okay, they didn’t really tank, but the output wasn’t remotely proportional to the input. I viewed the series as a bomb, despite good reviews and positive feedback from readers. The books just didn’t do what I needed them to do. They didn’t make money.

So, I went through all the stages of grief, and in the end I got angry. Anger is a great motivator for me. I looked at what was hitting the tops of the bestseller lists: Contemporary. New Adult. Erotica. None of my preferred genres. But I was so driven to prove to myself that I didn’t suck as a writer, I did something I swore I’d never do.

I sold out.

I wrote an erotica book.

It kicked my UF series’ ASS in sales and rankings.

Go effin’ figure.

Some hard truths came to light through this process. The biggest revelation was that as authors, we have to decide whether we’re in this business to make art or to make money. We can’t have both. Very few authors make art that sells. Commercial viability does not lend itself to artistic endeavors, and vice-versa. If New York doesn’t want your book, then you’re probably too creative. If they do want it, then you’re marketable. New York publishers run a business. They don’t give a shit about art.

Apparently, they have something there. Readers generally (don’t throw stones—I’m referring to the masses here, not individuals) don’t want art either. They want easily digestible, bite-sized nuggets of warm fuzzies. They want simplicity. Art is neither easily digestible (you sometimes have to chew on it for days to filter meaning from it) nor simple.

I made $10,000 in two weeks off my new erotica book STRINGS. Nearly three weeks later, I’m selling over 100 copies of the book a day. And this piece of trash never even cracked Amazon’s top 100. Imagine how much I’d have made if I’d busted open THAT list. My beautiful, artistic, deep JUST BREATHE urban fantasy series? Well, I’m still in the hole there if that tells you anything.

I spent exactly two months plotting, writing, editing, and publishing STRINGS. The JUST BREATHE Trilogy? Four YEARS.
My total production cost for STRINGS was under $500. I’m embarrassed to reveal how much money I poured into producing the three JUST BREATHE books.

How did I transform from nobody to Somebody? I sold out.

And you can too!
Or not.

I know it’s depressing to hear that in order to find success, you may have to compromise your principles. I’ve come to grips with the fact that in the current market, trashy smut sells, and urban fantasy does not. Tough shit for me. If you want to sell books, you have to feed the market what it craves.

You can be noble and stick to your guns and say, “Screw that! I’m gonna keep writing what’s in my heart no matter what!” Fine and groovy, as long as you accept that this guerilla mentality of badassery won’t pay your bills. More power to you for upholding your principles!

For us artists who want or need to make a living at writing, there is a silver lining. Once you’ve done your part to feed the reader machine, and you get paid ridiculous amounts of money for publicly shaming yourself and lowering your standards, you’ll be armed with the power to write what you want. Once you’ve built your readership, there’s a good chance many of your readers will follow you into your preferred, artsy-fartsy genre because they like you. Yes, you may have to compromise and write more sell-out books along the way to feed YOUR machine, but the beauty is that you can do BOTH and make it work.

Compromise: The name of the game for writers in the New World Order of Publishing.

So, who do you write for? Yourself or the market? How far are you willing to bend to achieve your dreams as an author?