Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker: Welcome To The New World

(I'm very happy to again be writing a monthly Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker for the wonderful Erotica Readers & Writers Association. Enjoy!)

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It doesn't seem that long ago. When Adrienne here at ERWA asked me … or did I ask her? … about a writing column when I'd only been a ‘pro’ for five or six years. I loved writing those years of Streetwalkers, because doing it was kind of a strike against all the bad writing books I'd read and the awful classes I'd taken—a way to say what I wish someone had told me when I was just starting out as a writer.

But not having enough time, not having anything left to say, and general this plus nonspecific that, I stepped away from doing my Streetwalker column a few years ago.

But now Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker is back. Not because I suddenly have a lot of time on my hands, or that general this plus nonspecific that went away, but because everything’s changed in the world of publishing and erotica.

Sure, I know: Change Happens, The Only Thing Unchanging Is Change, and all those other bumper stickers, but what’s happened over the past few years is pretty shocking. Disturbing in some ways—okay in a lot of ways—but there are also new and unique opportunities. It’s a totally new world.

And what’s what I'm going to write about. Well, mostly what I'm going to write about; I reserve the right to go on the occasional tangent. That, at least, hasn't changed.

Why should you listen to me? Well, aside from checking out at my full biography—that Adrienne will, no doubt, put a link to somewhere in this sentence—I can pretty easily say I've written quite a few stories, edited some anthologies, have more than a couple collections and novels on the shelves.

I'm going to use whatever space I have left here to give you some idea of what I plan to talk about in future columns:

• Why a blog or a site is essential (and common mistakes to avoid)
• The more-important-than-ever need to develop good relationships
• When you need to write about yourself – and when you need to shut up
• How the erotica genre has changed over the past few years – and where it might be going
• To podcast or not to podcast
• New erotica writing opportunities you might not be thinking of
• Print is dead, or at least not the only game in town – and why that’s a good thing (including what to look for in an ebook publisher)
• New publicity techniques for the new world of erotica
• Believe it or not, sex has actually changed – so erotica has to, as well
• and much more ….

As with the first incarnation of Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker, please feel free to write me at zobop@aol.com with comments and suggestions, and definitely check out my pro site at www.mchristian.com and my fun sites Meine Kleine Fabrik and Frequently Felt.

Hang on, folks: it's going to be a wild, weird, and informative ride as we explore how the world of writing and publishing, especially erotic writing and publishing, has evolved over the last few years.

Found on YouTube: The Garden of Eve

"The Poetry Sweatshop" By Oatmeal Girl

Here's another great story from Oatmeal Girl. Remember if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.

The Poetry Sweatshop
By
Oatmeal Girl

Tucked away in an old, abandoned factory on a back street in an eastern town is a poetry sweatshop. Gone are the days of a poet summoning creation in a light-filled study, a cat on the carpet, flowers on the desk, and a maid serving tea and scones as the afternoon sun relaxes towards the horizon. The economy is bad and working conditions have suffered.

The lucky poet may have some sort of patron, or even owner, but not all are provided with a suitable workplace. Patrons, too, are suffering, and many must board out their poets like horses. Poetry sweatshops are stables for poets. But here, the writers aren't allotted even as much as a stall to work in. There is one room filled with small desks to which each poet is chained by the leg. The desks are outfitted with a small computer, a small notebook, and one pen. Replacement notebooks and pens must be requested via the poet's patron, and God forbid the computer should crash. There is a strict limit of two bottles of water a day, to prevent too many bathroom breaks, especially among the women writers, whose claim to small weak bladders is regarded with suspicion.

Two over-enthusiastic foremen supervise production. They are authorized to deliver brief words of praise for copious output, and swift, harsh, if brief punishment for distraction or what is deemed laziness. Here, writer's block never lasts long. The foremen are not charged with determining quality. That falls to The Owner of the establishment.

The Owner takes his responsibility towards the advancement of the arts very seriously. He is also a thoroughgoing sadist, and enjoys a bit too much his work in quality control. He maintains a side room just for that purpose, where more serious punishment is administered for work that does not meet his high standards. Patrons may also use the room for expressing their own disapproval, or, for an extra fee, have The Owner express it for them.

By deliberate design, the punishment room not only lacks sound-proofing, but has windows that open into the work area as a warning to any poets who may be slacking off. Of course, there is always the chance that the occasional weak-stomached writer will be distressed and distracted by the screams bursting forth from the next room, but over time they learn to control their reactions. The desk chairs are hard, and not kind to newly-caned bottoms.

There is one desk set slightly apart from the others. Here sits and slaves the poet belonging to The Owner himself. Other than the location of her little workplace, only two obvious characteristics distinguish this writer from the others. One is that, in addition to the chain from her ankle to the desk, there is a choke chain around her neck which is attached to the back of the chair. The second is that she must work naked.

Periodically, The Owner will take his pet poet off to a private room for instruction and correction. Her screams are heart-rending, but she always returns to her desk with head held high and a glow on her tear-stained face. She sits gingerly for the next day or two, but her production always improves.

She has no complaints and considers herself lucky. They say "You gotta suffer if you want to sing the blues." The same can be said of writing poetry.

Certainly, The Owner is in total agreement.

"Tell Me... " By Alice Gray

Here's another great story from Alice Gray, who suffered through ... I mean attended my Sex Sells: How to Write & Sell Erotica class. Thanks again, Alice!

"Tell Me... "
By
Alice Gray

Were you watching last night, peeking through your window blinds at my wife sleeping on our bed dressed in nothing but moonlight? Did you see me come in and wake her with my hands and mouth? Did it excite you when she invited me into bed? Could you see us kissing, watch our mouths meet, tongues dance?

Wasn't she beautiful when she slid onto my cock? Could you even see me lying in her shadow or only her glorious quicksilver form moving above me? Did you hear her make me come? Did you see what I did after I came? You didn't really think I'd go to sleep knowing she wasn't satisfied, did you? Could you see her face while I pleased her with my fingers, my mouth, my cock?

Were you surprised by how demanding she was? How long did you last before you couldn't stand it anymore and started stroking yourself? Did the sound of her orgasm push you over the edge? Isn't she wild when she lets go? How much time will you spend peeking out that window, waiting for the next show?

Do you really believe we don't know you're watching?

"I wanna fuck Sarah Palin"

This comes from my pal Tre Giles - who got it from these cool folks.

You too, can be like Don Draper...

Musical Interlude: Corporate Cannibal by Grace Jones

Molecular Potty-Mouth

Wiki:

Arsole, rarely called arsenole, is a cyclic organoarsenic chemical compound of the formula C₄H₅As. The structure is isoelectronic to that of pyrrole except that an arsenic atom is substituted for the nitrogen atom and that arsole is only mildly aromatic. Arsole itself does exist but is rarely found in its pure form. Several substituted analogs called arsoles also exist.

When arsole is fused to a benzene ring, this molecule is called benzarsole.

Because of its similarity to the British slang word "arsehole", the name "arsole" has been considered a target of fun, a "silly name"^], and one of several chemical compounds with an unusual name.

Mykola Dementiuk's Masturbating At The Movies: Goldfinger

Here's another wonderful piece from my pal, and frequent Frequently Felt contributor, Mykola Dementiuk. Enjoy!

I had been secretly seeing Olena because she was engaged to this guy and she or me didn’t want the information to leak out; the thing was he was in Vietnam, defending his country, and it wouldn’t do any good if someone found out she was a two-timer -- most of all with me….

Earlier, in the neighborhood I had seen him pouncing on guys he suspected were taking advantage and double-crossing him and I sure didn’t want to be the one with a black-eye from his fist.

But Olena was easy, too easy, very innocent and naïve, and a flirt. Tell her that she’s a nice girl and that you really like her and she would melt in your arms as easy as…well, like taking candy from a baby. Because it was her little girlishness that lured her into trouble around guys, that’s why Ray, her fiancé, kept her under lock and key, or at the least some kind of control once he wasn't around. He was very possessive and jealous but he hadn’t been at home for almost a year, fighting in the jungles of Vietnam, and I easily got close to her and kept it as quiet as she did too.

It was her idea we see Goldfinger; James Bond still wasn’t very well known but she had seen an earlier film of his, Dr. No, and was dying to see another one; but a midnight showing at the Paramount in Times Square? Well, I didn’t know about that….

“Oh, c’mon,” she pouted and her little girl’s voice said, “We can make doity in the balcony.” My cock rose as she said this, her eyes flirting, the breasts standing up, having increased in size and the little girl had become a rabid horny slut that I had every intention of filling up. She winked and said, “Anyway, there won’t be many people at that time of night, OK?”

I leered at her and said, “Yes, OK, I can’t wait,” pressing my hard dick against her.

That weekend, a Sunday night, we got up to Times Square around 11:30 pm. Right away we saw the mobs of people going in to see the ‘spy-lover’ and she was very disappointed, finally thinking that in a slow scene we could kiss and make-out but with the number of people going into the Paramount it was unlikely that anyone wouldn’t see what we were doing.

It was not until the movie began, with its haunting music, “Goldfinger, he’s the man, the man with the Midas touch…” that she relaxed and concentrated on her popcorn and forgot about me as she didn’t intend to do. But I didn’t care; I forgot about her too and got wrapped in the drama and tension as well. Laughing and shouting and gasping at the actors as they tried to stop the gold of Fort Knox from getting stolen by the Chinese hoodlums. There was Pussy Galore, Goldfinger's lovely secretary, and Odd Job, his evil Chinese derby-hated henchman, who everybody loved, and the evil Goldfinger himself who got killed as he fell out of an airplane in the end leaving James Bond with Pussy to cascade down to earth ….Man that was the best film I ever saw!

I rode Olena near her home, each one talking and jabbering but we finally separated on the subway platform near where she lived. Sadly the following week Ray was back from Vietnam and a few months after that him and Olena got married. She had 2 or 3 kids in rapid succession, one after the other….I avoided running into Ray in the neighborhood but wondered if he ever found out about Olena and me, but there was nothing to find out; James Bond got in the way…which I'm glad he did.

I still come by Times Square, once in awhile, but it’s so much a different place….The movies, the peepshows, the hookers all have been sanitized and cleaned up….Even the Paramount has been shut down a few times and reopened into its old boring splendor that can never take the place of the old house…Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra sang in the old hall...Oh well…think I’ll go now….

“Goldfinger, he’s the man, the man with a Midas touch…Such a cold finger....” Shirley Bassey sung that, Elvis and Frank didn't.

Some memories and tunes never die….

Oprah: Responsible Sex Educator

Wiki:

A rainbow party is purportedly a group sex event involving oral sex and the subject of an urban legend. At these parties, said to be increasingly popular among adolescents, girls wearing various shades of lipstick supposedly take turns fellating boys in sequence, leaving behind a "rainbow" of colors on their penises. The idea was first publicized by Oprah Winfrey's talk show in 2003. Deborah Tolman, director of the Center for Research on Gender and Sexuality at San Francisco State University writes: "This 'phenomenon' has all the classic hallmarks of a moral panic… One day we have never heard of rainbow parties and then suddenly they are everywhere, feeding on adults' fears that morally-bankrupt sexuality among teens is rampant, despite any actual evidence, as well as evidence to the contrary."

The rainbow party was first publicized in October 2003 on the Oprah episode "Is Your Child Leading a Double Life?", which was about the perceived trend of increasing sexual promiscuity among American youth and the lack of parental awareness of the sexual practices of their children. One guest on the show, who claimed to be aware of teenagers' sexual habits, claimed, among other things, that many teens across the United States engage in "rainbow parties." According to the report, teenage girls enjoy the competitive aspect of the event by using the lipstick to "mark" the depth of oral penetration, treating the sex play as a contest of sorts.

Rainbow Party is also a novel commissioned by a Simon & Schuster editor to "scare" kids. The author was Paul Ruditis. The book, which Library Journal declined to review, is about teens who fantasize about having a rainbow party.

The book proved controversial, as it was meant for teenagers (recommended by the publisher for ages 14 and up), thus raising questions about its propriety. In turn, concerns were raised that excluding the book from bookstores and libraries would amount to censorship. The publishers justified Rainbow Party on the grounds that it was a cautionary tale intended to teach readers that oral sex can be dangerous.

Note To Self: Project For Next Summer ....

Wiki:

The book Naked Came the Stranger was a literary hoax perpetrated by a number of prominent journalists in 1969. The project was conceived by Mike McGrady of Newsday, who assembled twenty-four journalists to write a deliberately terrible book with a lot of sex, to illustrate the point that popular American literary culture had become mindlessly vulgar.

Mike McGrady, a well-known Newsday columnist, was convinced that popular American literary culture had become so base—with the best-seller lists dominated by the likes of Harold Robbins and Jacqueline Susann—that even a wretchedly written, literarily vacant work could succeed if enough sex was thrown in. In order to test his theory, McGrady recruited a team of Newsday cohorts—according to Andreas Schroder, the authors consisted of five women and 19 men, 24 writers in total—to collaborate on a sexually explicit novel with no literary or social value whatsoever. Writing under the pseudonym Penelope Ashe (portrayed by McGrady's sister-in-law for photographs and meetings with publishers), the group wrote the book as a deliberately inconsistent and mediocre hodge-podge, with each chapter written by a different author. Some of the chapters had to be heavily edited, because they were originally too well written.

Fulfilling McGrady's cynical expectations, the book was wildly successful. As sales continued to increase, many of the co-authors felt guilty about the large amounts of money they were earning, and went public. In a most unusual display of bravado, the male authors gave their "confession" on The David Frost Show, after being introduced as "Penelope Ashe" and walking out on stage, single file, as the orchestra played the song "A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody".

The book eventually spent one week on the New York Times Best Seller list, although by that time its authorship was common knowledge. It is unclear how much of the book's success was due to its content and how much to publicity about its unusual origin.

Subsequently, McGrady and his collaborators were approached about writing a sequel; they refused. In 1970 McGrady published Stranger Than Naked, or How to Write Dirty Books for Fun and Profit which told the story of the hoax. He later co-wrote Linda Lovelace's controversial autobiography Ordeal.

"Home At Last" By Alice Gray

Here's a wonderful story from Alice Gray, who suffered through ... I mean attended my Sex Sells: How to Write & Sell Erotica class. Thanks, Alice!

Home At Last
By
Alice Gray

A delayed flight, luggage lost then found. Everything working against him, slowing him down. All he wants is to see her, smell her, touch her, taste her, fuck her.

Home at last, much later than anticipated. His key twisting in the lock, his other hand loosening his tie. Inside, darkness and quiet stillness tells him she grew tired of waiting.

The image of her lying warm under the covers wearing the little top and panties he requested stirs him. He spent his trip thinking of nothing but her backside presented to him, of peeling that little red thong down her thighs just enough to get it out of the way.

Undressed, sliding between the sheets, he thinks he'll have to be satisfied with just holding her close until morning. He curls himself against her back, pressing his cock against her bottom and kissing her awake enough to let her know he's home. To his delight the panties make their way down her thighs, her body arching to welcome his cock so he can fuck her quietly from behind her while she floats in her half dream state. An orgasm each before drifting off. Ah, home at last.

"Scouts" by Nobilis

Here's another great excerpt from Nobilis. Remember if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.

Scouts
By
Nobilis

Challers and Valka have been picked up by a Scout Service ship, a mysterious military organization that maintains the information infrastructure of the galaxy.

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The interior of their ship was no less wonderful than the exterior. The hatch came up in a long, narrow passageway opening into a circular chamber with a soft, spongy floor, about as big as my family's main room. Wide padded benches ringed it, with breaks fore and aft for the passageways leading to the rest of the ship. The dark walls beyond the benches glowed with status displays and programmable controls in between access panels and lockers. The air felt warmer than the Station. Shirley popped open a panel, revealing a set of cubbyholes. Two were stuffed with rolls of fabric, and the other two were empty. "Put your things in here, and we'll be on our way."

Masters left, taking the other passageway towards the nose of the ship, and Shirley took a seat on a bench, facing the center of the room. She stuck her legs out and crossed them, leaning back on her hands.

When our things were stowed and the panel secured again, she waved her hands at the benches. "Sit, sit, and I'll give you the talk while Masters takes us out."

Val and I sat together, our hands touching on the padded seat.

"Welcome to the Scout service. You are now provisional cadets. This means you do as I say, or Masters, or for that matter any other Scout you're likely to meet. Don't worry, we're a very informal service. No salutes, no honorifics. It's actually more like a family than a military service. There are some rules, though."

"One: Take care of your body. It is your greatest possession as a Scout. No unapproved drugs, no alcohol, no caffeine. Of course, it'll be hard to violate that rule when you're on a Scout craft, but it's a rule you should always be following."

"Two: Take care of your mind. I've already seen your academic records, and you two have solid foundations. You still have much to learn to be full-fledged Scouts. Astrophysics, engineering, xenobiology, planetology, history, politics, diplomacy—you're going to study it all. Scouts get sent on a wide variety of missions, and your most efficient tools are the ones you carry around in your heads."

"Three: No orgasms without my express permission, under any circumstances. The ship is highly sensitive to releases of orgone energy. It shouldn't be an issue, since there's no privacy on this ship, but there have been accidents."

I looked at Val. Her brow furrowed.

"I know," said Shirley, "You're young, and you need release. I'll make sure you get the opportunities you need, but they must be under controlled conditions. Don't worry. The last thing I want is to cause you trauma."

Masters' voice broke in, transmitted from the cockpit. "We're away, Shirley. Ready for jump."

Shirley nodded. "Thank you, Masters. Meet us in the Chamber." She addressed Val and I again. "Looks like it's time for your first engineering lesson. Faster-than-light travel is dependent upon orgone energy. Merchant ships use basal orgone, the ordinary everyday energy of life. Warships need to be able to generate bursts of speed, so their engines can also accept crisis orgone from rage, fear, and pain. It's a horrific life, but as long as there are pirates preying on Merchant ships, we need the Fleet."

"And then there's us. Scout ships can travel across the galaxy in a moment, powered by transcendent orgone. Some of the great adepts have learned to release it at will, but most of us use orgasm."

"Orgasm?" The implications of this secret burst upon me like a bomb.

"You are familiar with the concept?" She smiled. "I've read your medical report, everything seemed to be alright, but if there's a problem..."

"No, no." I shook my head. "No problem."

"Good." She glanced around the room. "This chamber is surrounded by collectors that channel the orgone into field generators set in the hull. If the field generators are properly primed, and the navigation computer set to trigger, pop! We're there."

Masters emerged from the passageway and stood in the center of the room.

Shirley stood and moved next to him. "Ready to give a demonstration?"

"As always," he said, and pulled his shirt up over his head.

I scratched the back of my neck and looked away. "Don't you want us to, um..."

"Of course not," said Shirley. "How else are you going to learn? Station folk have different ways of looking at sex."

Masters chuckled.

Shirley shot him a look. "So to speak. You need to shed your inhibitions, and this is your first step in doing that."

I looked up to see her tossing her top behind a bench. Her full, round breasts bounced with her movements.

"Should I take off my clothes, too?" I didn't know what I was supposed to do. It felt strange to just sit there, watching.

She rolled her pants down, revealing full hips and thighs. The naked cleft of her pussy held my fascinated attention.

"No, keep your clothes on, and don't touch yourself, either. You need to learn control, and now is the time to start."

I looked over at Val. Her lips pursed, one hand nervously picked at the neck of her shirt. She caught my eye and gave me a fleeting smile. This would test her as much as it did me.

Shirley and Masters, now completely naked, kissed, left hands laid gently on each others waist, right hands roaming over each others body. Their kisses were quick, rhythmic, but open-mouthed and full of passionate promise. They sank down onto the floor as one, performing a dance they obviously knew well from long practice. She lay on her back, hands caressing his shoulders, neck and ears. His lips traveled over her body, kissing and nuzzling her skin as he gradually approached her breast.

I adjusted my pants so that my cock could slip into a more comfortable position. How could they possibly expect me to watch this and not have an orgasm? I had never seen anything so arousing in my life. Some of my friends had exchanged sex holos on the Station but my parents never allowed any such things in our quarters. I longed to touch myself, to relieve the pressure I felt building within me, but Shirley had given specific orders. I crossed my legs and focused my attention on her face.

Shirley's eyelids fluttered closed, and her mouth curled into a gentle smile. As Masters' attentions moved gradually lower, her mouth opened, letting out small gasps.

Even this second-hand pleasure was difficult to bear. My erection pushed out on my pants, begging for attention. If I didn't attend to it soon, I would wind up with a serious case of blue-balls.

I glanced over at Val. She had crossed her legs and shoved her hands under her butt, and I could barely sense something trembling about her. I didn't dare say anything.

A soft cry of pleasure drew my attention back to Shirley and Masters. He knelt between her legs, arms under her thighs to lift her plump, shaved pussy to his mouth. I couldn't see exactly what he was doing from my angle but Shirley showed every sign of enjoying it. Her hands squeezed her breasts, and her mouth gaped open as her body writhed beneath him.

As if at a signal, they parted, and Masters lay on his back. Shirley stroked his cock a few times with her hand, then engulfed it in her mouth. It took only a matter of seconds to bring him to full erection. She threw a leg over his abdomen and mounted him, impaling herself on his rigid member. Valka whimpered. I glanced her way again. She had closed her eyes, shutting out the passionate vision in front of her. I didn't blame her. I was fascinated, certainly, but if I kept watching I was going to come whether I wanted to or not. I closed my eyes too.

The sounds they made aroused me just as much, though. The wet sounds of the act itself combined with their grunts and moans. My imagination filled in the blanks. The chaotic music of their lovemaking filled my head as it grew louder and more insistent. The end finally arrived, punctuated by Shirley's shriek of bliss and Master's drawn-out groan.

The ship shuddered as if it, too, had had an orgasm. A drum-like thudding came from the wall behind me and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Valka, suddenly, had her arms around me and I held her. Had she broken the rule and let the orgasm take her? Had I? My confusion ran so deep I couldn't tell.

Thanks -

- to all the wonderful people who braved a beautiful San Francisco Sunday to take my Sex Sells: How to Write & Sell Erotica class on Sunday. It was a lot of fun to teach - and hopefully a lot of fun to attend.

Depending on time and life there’s a chance I might teach the class again sometime soon. Keep an eye my sites for further info.

John McCain is a Boob

Deviantly Deviantart

Here's some more wonderful examples of erotic art from deviantart.

These incredible images come from the fantastic Jed Dougherty (Jebriodo)

Hear Helen E. H. Madden's The Monster Beneath the Bed

Here's your chance to hear the always-fantastic Helen E. H. Madden read from her The Monster Under The Bed. Check out her podcast here.

Mykola Dementiuk: She Came on the Bus

Here's another great piece from my pal, and frequent Frequently Felt contributor, Mykola Dementiuk. Enjoy!

After a week of moronic working downtown -- though my wages were bi-weekly and I still hadn’t been paid -- it was always a thrill and delight to head up to 42nd street where some of the frustration from the week could be worn off. Coming up from the subway I’d feel a tightening in my belly as the stiffness and hardness grew in my jeans because I never knew who would touch or kiss or suck me and then disappear into the night…

I loved rising up from the subway and seeing the feast of flickering lights that hung over each theater and the provocative names luring viewers into better times within…The Filthy Five, Promiscuous Sex, Sex With a Stranger and others. But week after week, when I got out of the subway, disappointment again surged across my face. From the Bryant Theater was suspended the now-repetitive week-after-week marquee She Came on the Bus, a black and white oldie that I used to love, but once again I was pissed…it was a repeat that by now was going nowhere at all….Those usual soft core films the Bryant showed seemed to add an allure that other movie houses didn’t seem to have. I liked the soft-core-ness of the Bryant; because intimate closeness of screwing, a cock pounding in and out of a vagina just didn’t do it for me. Give me some distance; show me her whole body, dressed in nylons and garters and slowly disrobing to arousal in ecstasy, in bliss, so I could jerk-off in peace or a hot frenzy…which I’ve done countless times at the Bryant….

But week after week the same repetitions were destroying my hunger for them. I had seen the film countless times, spending hours in that theater, and I felt reluctant of offering any more money into the greedy pockets of some cigar-smoking owner/gangster….

I sulked and walked up and down 42nd street, past the Globe Theatre on Broadway, the Lyric, the Times Square and other houses then crossed the street and continued my walking on the other side, past New Amsterdam and Empire among others, gazing into girlie stores, peep shows and the eventual hamburger joints until I came back to the street where the Bryant stood. Angrily I thought I’d go back and start my procession all over again when out of the corner of my eye I saw something pink was swaying the Bryant.

My God, a girl! I thought, frozen in my tracks. And going to see a soft core flick!

I hurried up the street; impatiently waited for my penny change from the teller-- why do they do these things? I wondered, charge a buck 99 when 2 bucks would be easier to take? I had no idea -- but still gazing after the tight pants pink girl as she walked up the long mirrored walkway and disappeared into the theater.

Finally, the teller buzzed me in and I pounced into the theater. I love the hazy smoky darkness of movie houses because never mind what’s was going on the screen the activity was right here in the theatre aisles! But the pink girl had quickly faded into a seat somewhere….

I walked down the murky aisle, passing the back rows crowded with men, and in the middle rows her pinkness stood out from the darkness around her….But already a man was sitting next to her!

My God, that was fast!

I instantly took a seat in a row behind them and set my coat over my lap. On the screen, thrill seekers invade a house of a suburban housewife and inject her with drugs then rape her. They go off and steal a bus and pick up two good-looking women who are on their way into the city for clothes shopping. One woman is terrified while the other submits to the kidnapper while trying to get an upper hand over him. Not much skin but decent breast exposure which I liked in those days. I’ve sat through that film over 50 times and still think it's moronic garbage but one that always eventually gets me in as it did this time.

I’ve seen the film dozens of times, coming in the middle, coming near the end, which was the style in those days before they made everyone patient and orderly as they waited in some lobby to get into and see a movie. Well, not in those days, nosiree….

I moved my jacket over me and proceeded to rub myself. The soft-core action wasn’t arousing me it was the man next to the pink girl before me. Her topless shoulder was seemingly jerking up and down and it was clear what she was doing, giving the guy a hand-job, when he cringed and bent forwards and I heard a high-pitched groan and sigh as he collapsed in his seat.

What a great feeling to know I was beating my own cock as the pink dream was beating his. I spasmed at the same time as he did it too; our two yelps sounded very provocative that the girl even turned to look at me, Oh my God, she’s a man dressed as a girl! But what did I expect, I thought, grinning at her as she leered and turned her back on me. Her cumming fellow had suddenly gotten very embarrassed and stood up and disappeared back up the aisle.

I smirked; the boring film was about over, the characters promising that the wheels of sex would take them to their desire. And I almost yawned when another man walked right into the seat next to her. I giggled; this was even better than watching a dull sex movie, which it was, and it soon ended but began to roll again.

I could take another beating-off, I suspected, but I stood up and went to the men’s room. Pinky, the dream queen, will still be here when I got back, I knew; but if she wasn’t, well, I had no money to spend on her anyway, that’s why jerking-off had to suffice…next week I would….

The bus rolled into view on the screen. I laughed and headed to the bathroom. Strangely I was very happy and peaceful….

Amos Lassen Loves Brushes

Romantic, Erotic and Gorgeous:

"Brushes" is great erotica set in a romantic setting. It is a multi-layered look at love, Paris and the world of art. We meet eight people, all of whom are involved in the art world. As their lives intertwine, each experiences a form of sexual contact that will change them completely.

Escobar is a very talented artist but exactly who he is and how he works is the essence of "Brushes". The world sees him as a genius. His mastery of color, form and shape is unequaled and he has taken the art world by storm. To discover who he, we look at him from different viewpoints. His wife, his manager, his forger, his brother, his model and others tell us about him in separate stories that all come together. However, these stories tell us more about the teller than they do about the man in question. In that, Escobar is like the art he creates. It is studied and it is open to different interpretations as well as misinterpretations.

M. Christian is a master storyteller. I have read a lot of him and each time I pick up something by him, I find myself so involved in the story that I feel it is actually happening as I read. "Brushes" evokes carnality and in dealing with the art scene of Paris and those that inhabit it, Christian gives us an erotic treat. He so captures the scene that I was completely engulfed by the novel by the third page. Sure the eroticism is very hot but it is the story that is better. The intriguing characters and the way that they come in and out of each others' lives in handled brilliantly. We see, though the characters that all is not always what it seems to be and surprises lurk and wait. This is a gorgeous book to be savored.

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So Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very Wrong

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