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To All the Penises I've Ever Known
Ranging in style from funny to filthy, this erotica collection features author commentary on selected stories and my open letter to you-know-who. The paperback version of this book also features my long short story "The Hannelack Fanny, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Rump."
“Morning After”
“I glanced down at my body, dappled with the warming rays of the sun. My breasts were bare. My belly was bare. My thighs were bare. In fact, the only part of me that wasn’t bare was my right foot, which still clung to the more stubborn half of a cotton ankle sock...”
Short story. Includes author commentary on why threesomes make for the funniest erotica.
“Ballroom Dance”
“Tonight’s the night. The grand finale, if you will. The final class in ballroom dance…”
Flash fiction of the extra-dirty variety. The less said about it the better!
“To All the Penises I’ve Ever Known”
My open letter to you-know-who.
Essay. Includes author commentary.
“Me and Fat Marge”
“Her breasts alone are the size of honeydews and as I stare, my eyes popping, at the nipples poking through the thin cotton I wonder, in spite of myself, if they’re equally as sweet.”
Short story. Includes commentary on my first published piece of erotica.
“Missed Connection”
“He nuzzled between my open legs and without stopping to think, I pulled him eagerly forward, the blunted cloth of his khakis growing damp with my wetness as I stroked myself against him, feeling his cock so close, so unbearably close that I couldn’t believe that it wasn’t inside me, that it was still relegated to the realm of teasing anticipation…”
Flash fiction. Includes commentary on the genesis of the dirty version of this story and the confession that prompted it.
“Complete Your Assignments!”
“She was going to fail this class, she thought as she felt her cheeks tingling with excitement. But it would be worth it!”
Flash fiction. No comment!
“Lori Schafer: I Write Erotica”
“Q: What are peoples' reactions when they find out you write erotica?
A: If they know me at all, they’re not very surprised.”
My author interview with Guy Hogan of The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette.
"The Hannelack Fanny, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Rump"
A young woman's life is changed forever when she discovers what everyone around her has known all along: that a renowned family characteristic has re-emerged in a most unfortunate location - her own backside. Follow her journey from embarrassment to acceptance to unbridled joy as she learns to appreciate the wonders of going through life with the Hannelack fanny.
“Morning After”
“I glanced down at my body, dappled with the warming rays of the sun. My breasts were bare. My belly was bare. My thighs were bare. In fact, the only part of me that wasn’t bare was my right foot, which still clung to the more stubborn half of a cotton ankle sock...”
Short story. Includes author commentary on why threesomes make for the funniest erotica.
“Ballroom Dance”
“Tonight’s the night. The grand finale, if you will. The final class in ballroom dance…”
Flash fiction of the extra-dirty variety. The less said about it the better!
“To All the Penises I’ve Ever Known”
My open letter to you-know-who.
Essay. Includes author commentary.
“Me and Fat Marge”
“Her breasts alone are the size of honeydews and as I stare, my eyes popping, at the nipples poking through the thin cotton I wonder, in spite of myself, if they’re equally as sweet.”
Short story. Includes commentary on my first published piece of erotica.
“Missed Connection”
“He nuzzled between my open legs and without stopping to think, I pulled him eagerly forward, the blunted cloth of his khakis growing damp with my wetness as I stroked myself against him, feeling his cock so close, so unbearably close that I couldn’t believe that it wasn’t inside me, that it was still relegated to the realm of teasing anticipation…”
Flash fiction. Includes commentary on the genesis of the dirty version of this story and the confession that prompted it.
“Complete Your Assignments!”
“She was going to fail this class, she thought as she felt her cheeks tingling with excitement. But it would be worth it!”
Flash fiction. No comment!
“Lori Schafer: I Write Erotica”
“Q: What are peoples' reactions when they find out you write erotica?
A: If they know me at all, they’re not very surprised.”
My author interview with Guy Hogan of The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette.
"The Hannelack Fanny, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Rump"
A young woman's life is changed forever when she discovers what everyone around her has known all along: that a renowned family characteristic has re-emerged in a most unfortunate location - her own backside. Follow her journey from embarrassment to acceptance to unbridled joy as she learns to appreciate the wonders of going through life with the Hannelack fanny.
108 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2015
1 person is currently reading
335 people want to read
About the author
Lori Schafer
65 books136 followersWhen I was in the seventh grade, my English teacher assigned us a creative writing project for Halloween. We were to compose short stories, which we would then read aloud before the class, coupled with a competition of sorts in which the students would vote on who had written the best one.
Now in my pre-teen years, I was not what you would term the most popular kid in school. Perhaps it was those horrible "Student-of-the-Month" photos of me hanging in the main hallway, which they somehow always managed to take right after gym when my hair was flying every which way, or perhaps it was the oxford shirts and corduroy trousers in which my mother dressed me because I refused to participate in ridiculous wastes of time like school-clothes shopping. It certainly didn't help that in addition to being smart and studious, I was also very, very shy, which led many to believe that I was stuck-up. I suppose if you're naturally adept at making conversation, it's difficult to understand that other kids might not be.
You can therefore easily picture the scene in the classroom that day: the anxious adolescent girl slouched in her seat, sweat drenching the armpits of her button-up shirt as she watched the clock, fervently hoping that time would run out before her turn came. You can imagine my nervousness when, five minutes before the bell, my teacher called me to the front of the class, the last reader to go; my terror as I stumbled up to her desk clutching the half-sheets of paper on which I'd scrawled my assignment. As usual, I had pushed the limits on the suggested length - my story was at least twice as long as anyone else's - and the only saving grace of this enforced public humiliation, I thought, was that I would undoubtedly run out of time to finish it before the lunch bell rang.
Tucking my loose hair back behind my ears and focusing my eyes firmly on my papers, I began to read. It turned out that reading wasn't so bad; unlike giving an oral report, you didn't actually have to look at any of the other students. And it was a decent story, I reflected as I flipped through the pages, concentrating hard on not losing my place. At least my classmates were sitting silently, which made them easier to ignore.
At last I reached the climax of my tale, which was where it turned gruesome. The main character had gotten trapped in a fire, and I remember describing, in disgusting detail, the sizzle of the hairs frying on his arms as the hot flames neared. I remember describing the flames devouring his flesh, great flaps of it falling from his skeleton as his skin seared away. And I remember the silence of the classroom; I remember it breaking, the moans and groans that swelled all around me as I depicted my main character's excruciating demise, only to be interrupted by the harsh clanging of the bell.
No one stirred; no one rose; no one left. I glanced at my teacher, who nodded. The other students sat rapt while I finished my story, and they applauded when I was done. There was no question that I had won the contest.
I was pleased that my story had gone over well, of course, but it wasn't until the following week, when other kids were still coming up to talk to me about it, that I understood that I had somehow made an impression that went beyond my gruesome, graphic horror story. It was as if I had revealed that somewhere beneath that classic nerdy exterior was a real honest-to-goodness person, a kid who thought about things like destruction and death, and flames eating flesh, and how best to describe such horrific events.
I never wrote horror again - I suppose it just wasn't my thing - and I've never made much of Halloween, either. I've never liked the pressure of having to pick out a costume and then explain why I chose it; I've never even understood the appeal of dressing up and playing pretend. I have other ways of exploring my darker sides. Nowadays you won't find me in a starched, striped shirt, or in old-fashioned slacks, b
Now in my pre-teen years, I was not what you would term the most popular kid in school. Perhaps it was those horrible "Student-of-the-Month" photos of me hanging in the main hallway, which they somehow always managed to take right after gym when my hair was flying every which way, or perhaps it was the oxford shirts and corduroy trousers in which my mother dressed me because I refused to participate in ridiculous wastes of time like school-clothes shopping. It certainly didn't help that in addition to being smart and studious, I was also very, very shy, which led many to believe that I was stuck-up. I suppose if you're naturally adept at making conversation, it's difficult to understand that other kids might not be.
You can therefore easily picture the scene in the classroom that day: the anxious adolescent girl slouched in her seat, sweat drenching the armpits of her button-up shirt as she watched the clock, fervently hoping that time would run out before her turn came. You can imagine my nervousness when, five minutes before the bell, my teacher called me to the front of the class, the last reader to go; my terror as I stumbled up to her desk clutching the half-sheets of paper on which I'd scrawled my assignment. As usual, I had pushed the limits on the suggested length - my story was at least twice as long as anyone else's - and the only saving grace of this enforced public humiliation, I thought, was that I would undoubtedly run out of time to finish it before the lunch bell rang.
Tucking my loose hair back behind my ears and focusing my eyes firmly on my papers, I began to read. It turned out that reading wasn't so bad; unlike giving an oral report, you didn't actually have to look at any of the other students. And it was a decent story, I reflected as I flipped through the pages, concentrating hard on not losing my place. At least my classmates were sitting silently, which made them easier to ignore.
At last I reached the climax of my tale, which was where it turned gruesome. The main character had gotten trapped in a fire, and I remember describing, in disgusting detail, the sizzle of the hairs frying on his arms as the hot flames neared. I remember describing the flames devouring his flesh, great flaps of it falling from his skeleton as his skin seared away. And I remember the silence of the classroom; I remember it breaking, the moans and groans that swelled all around me as I depicted my main character's excruciating demise, only to be interrupted by the harsh clanging of the bell.
No one stirred; no one rose; no one left. I glanced at my teacher, who nodded. The other students sat rapt while I finished my story, and they applauded when I was done. There was no question that I had won the contest.
I was pleased that my story had gone over well, of course, but it wasn't until the following week, when other kids were still coming up to talk to me about it, that I understood that I had somehow made an impression that went beyond my gruesome, graphic horror story. It was as if I had revealed that somewhere beneath that classic nerdy exterior was a real honest-to-goodness person, a kid who thought about things like destruction and death, and flames eating flesh, and how best to describe such horrific events.
I never wrote horror again - I suppose it just wasn't my thing - and I've never made much of Halloween, either. I've never liked the pressure of having to pick out a costume and then explain why I chose it; I've never even understood the appeal of dressing up and playing pretend. I have other ways of exploring my darker sides. Nowadays you won't find me in a starched, striped shirt, or in old-fashioned slacks, b
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