Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
I want to see you kneeling and beautiful with your lips wrapped around my cock. I want you to encircle the base; look up at me with lust glazed eyes and say to me how badly you want it. I want to bend you over and lick your spine, lube you up and ride to glory. I want to fuck you until you bark-helpless to contain your joy. I want you to come like Mt Vesuvius all over my cock. And then I want you to come again. I want you to come so hard you see stars and moons, speak in tongues. I want your body to remember me as no other. When you think of me I want you to squirm in your seat. I want you to feel the throb of absolute need inside. I want your mouth to water just thinking of my cock. And then I want you to smile. Then when someone asks what the little smile is for simply say,
"Oh, just thinking of a girl I used to know."
Monday, November 24, 2008
"FCC Song" is a deliberately controversial and explicit song by British-born Monty Python comic Eric Idle. Idle, who later became a resident of the U.S. state of California, recorded the song in early 2004 in reaction to a fine by the U.S. Federal Communications Commission (FCC) for saying "fuck" on a Clear channel radio station. The song is also known by its refrain "fuck you very much". Despite being aimed at the FCC, the lyrics primarily target well-known figures associated with the George W. Bush administration. Idle stated about the song that
- "...it's dedicated to the FCC and if they broadcast it, it will cost a quarter of a million dollars".
(This calculation is based on the fine Idle had to pay for his one time use of the popular expletive.)
Idle has made the song freely available for download at the Monty Python website. The lyrics' strong anti-Republican stance has prompted numerous anti-Bush websites to link to the song or to mirror it. The word "fuck" occurs 14 times in the song.
Here's a little number I wrote the other day while out duck hunting with a judge, QUACK
Fuck you very much the FCC
Fuck you very much for fining me
Five thousand bucks a fuck so I'm really out of luck
Thats more than Heidi Fliess was charging me.
So fuck you very much the FCC
For proving that free speech just isn't free
Clear Channel's a dear channel
so Howard Stern must go
Attorney General Ashcroft doesn't like strong words and so
He's charging twice as much as all the drugs for Rush Limbo
so Fuck you all so very much
So fuck you very much dear Mr. Bush
for heroically sitting on your tush
For Halliburton, Enron, all the companies who fail
Lets send them a clear signal and stick Martha straight in jail
She's an uppity rich bitch, but at least she isn't male
So fuck you all so very much
So fuck you dickhead Mr. Cheney too.
Fuck you and fuck everything you do.
Your pace maker must be fake
You haven't got a heart
As far as I'm concerned your just a pasty faced old fart
And as for Condolezza she an intellectual tart
So fuck you all so very much
So fuck you very much the EPA
For giving all Alaska's oil away
It really is a bummer
When I can't fill my Hummer
The ozone a no go zone now that Arnold's here to say
The nuclear winter games are going to take place in LA
So fuck you all so very much
So what the planet fails
Lets save the great white males
And fuck you all so very much
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Arline Hunter is an American actress and model. She is perhaps best known as Playboys Playmate of the Month for August 1954. Her centerfold was the first not to be purchased from the John Baumgarth Co. by Hugh Hefner, and was instead photographed by Ed DeLong, who would go on to become one of the more prolific Playboy photographers in the 1960s.
Much of Hunter's fame was built upon her resemblance to Marilyn Monroe; indeed, her Playboy pose was obviously inspired by Monroe's notorious 1949 nude photo session with Tom Kelley from which her own Playboy photo came. The similarity in look between Hunter and Monroe also came into play when a nude Hunter starred in a film short called Apple Knockers and Coke. For many years there have been those who have seen the film and have mistaken Hunter for Monroe.
Hunter went on to have a film career that consisted mostly of sexy parts in B-movies such as White Lightnin' Road (1965) and The Art of Burlesque (1968). Perhaps one of her biggest film roles was with fellow bombshell Mamie Van Doren in Sex Kittens Go to College. She also had guest roles in prominent TV series such as Perry Mason and My Three Sons.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I've been reading M.Christian's blog for a few months now, rather voyeuristically as I digest every word of his thought provoking posts. He's such a well respected writer and I have to thank Alison Tyler for turning me on to him. I recently left a comment on his blog. I felt compelled to do so, and he replied to me via e-mail, so graciously. He thanked me for stopping over; letting me know how much he appreciated the support - inviting me please stop back again. "Really, it was all my pleasure." I sighed to myself.What I learned from our brief e-mail conversation was that M. Christian has another erotic blog which is filled with what he calls, trivialities, oddities and the miscellenous - Frequently Felt. If you're anything like me, you're always looking for new ways to expose yourself in public, rather exhibitionistically, I mean...uh, ahem...gain more exposure for your work. The Frequently Felt blog is a fun little place to set yourself free; to streak across an open field and show the world what you got! Go check it out.
Voyeuristically and Exhibitionistically yours,Neve
p.s. The binocular pendant pictured above can be purchased via Etsy here.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Sit on My Face is a short song by the members of Monty Python's Flying Circus. The song originally appeared on the album Monty Python's Contractual Obligation Album and subsequently on Monty Python Sings and was performed at the Hollywood Bowl in the performance released under the name Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl. It was also performed at the Concert for George.
The song's lyrics are sung to the melody of Sing as We Go by Gracie Fields. The opening gives way to multiple male voices singing "Sit on my face and tell me that you love me." The remaining lyrics contain numerous references to fellatio and cunnilingus, such as "when I'm between your thighs you blow me away" and "life can be fine if we both 69".
Prior to the album's release, Monty Python received legal threats for alleged copyright infringement due to the similarity between Sit on My Face and Sing as we Go. Nonetheless, the Pythons decided to retain the song.
The US Federal Communications Commission (FCC) has ruled that the song is "actionably indecent", concluding that "despite English accent and 'ambient noise' … the lyrics were sufficiently understandable". In 1992, it pursued legal action against KGB-FM, a San Diego, California classic rock radio station, for playing the song, eventually forcing the station to pay US$9200 in fines. This was the most requested song on The Dr. Demento Show which could not be played on the radio. The addition of online only segments to this show available on streaming audio allowed the song to be played on Dr. Demento the weekend of 13 July, 2008 for online listeners only and made available on 14 July.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A lovely young mediator paid a visit to the Goodbye Newsprings the other night and left us a gift: four small capsules of Starfish, the newest cocktail by Alexei and Valena of Cockaygne.
It was a lovely, fresh feeling night with a salty wind coming in from the harbor. The “Sprout Council” seemed to have called their nightly tactical actions off early, leaving the streets of Twin Cables uncharacteristically quiet. Plus, we’d just heard some news and any excuse to celebrate is a good one around here.
We all paused to savor the way the capsules seemed to glisten under the refracting light of the prismatic, crystalline lid of the pill receptacle Bunny had left by my bedside. A happy tingle of remembrance between my thighs reminded me of the fun to be had when I returned the empty container to him and these thoughts may have set the tone for the rest of the evening for me.
I took the lid off, letting each of the other members of the modpod select a Starfish capsule before taking one myself. There was a faint grape flavor to the gelatin coating — a vegetable glycerin, one assumes, based on reports of past A&VofC products.
We’d all had a good meal and a nap at the beginning of the day then mostly abstained from eating. We dosed at Full Dark, but the come on seemed slow and gradual. We supplemented by smoking a quantity of Rosebud, a pleasingly floral-tasting blend of gurgeweed that has recently arrived in Port Outreach. We put on the new double release, The Broken Gaff: The Ambient Tracks, which seemed like perfect music for the preliminaries — well, all of us agreed except Baldy, who can’t stand Gurgerock. We promised him he could put on some of his favorites later when we were fully on.
I started feeling the effects of Starfish first — Mo was using na’s workstation, and I watched na’s face morph through a series of expressions with no seeming transition between them — it was as if one photo faded out into another, a subtle and strange effect. Mo later insisted, “That’s what my face always does if you really watch.” Granted, na was on Starfish when na said that, too.
The music really seemed to guide the mood — I noticed that various audio samples in it would subtly coincide with features of our conversation. Although visuals were slower to come for the others, all of us were feeling mellow, happy, and social. We sat around our workstations with the screens down talking for some time, occasionally reaching around to share touch. Skin felt pleasant to the touch but I felt a moderate but manageable amount of nervous energy that kept me from wanting to sit too still. Eventually, in fact, I got up, shed the light sarong I had been wearing, and began to dance slowly to the music. Selvari soon joined me.
Baldy was enjoying the tracers created by his own hand moving in the air, and regaling us with stories of psychedelic and entheogenic experiences past. Then he announced that it was time to hot tub, and though the winds were a bit high, we all agreed. Once properly immersed in the hot water, I was glad to be there. I let the others have the best jets and just floated, touching and looking. Mo and I spent a long time watching the yard together, which looked like a painting rather than the real thing.
The sky was exquisite as well. The clouds seemed to throb with different textures and colors, and the high winds meant they moved rapidly through the sky, revealing glimpses of Little Brother and, from time to time, a discernible constellation such as the Monkey and the Wheel. Baldy got excited when he realized he could see lines between the stars just like in a printed sky map.
I declared it was time to go inside. The music station had finished playing the new Gaff album and automatically moved on to other similar sounding tracks. As we listened and continued our conversations, it became clear that Baldy was agitated. Upon repeated inquiry from Mo, we found out he actually hadn’t changed the music as we’d encouraged him to do, and so our tunes were really getting to him.
“Why didn’t you ask to change the music?” I asked.
“It’s hard sometimes,” replied Baldy, with intense sounding remorse in his voice. “It feels like I’m insulting your musical tastes.”
Emotions can be heightened on Starfish as on many of the phenethylamine-based substances, so we all shared a warm hug to heighten the mood.
Baldy sat down at the music station to pick out a few of his favorites. It wasn’t even a Mouse moon, but the music station took that exact moment to malfunction and refuse to play anything. We spent a while tinkering with it, but all of us were too altered to figure it out.
Instead we raided cold storage for snacks. One of the great things about Starfish, in keeping with most of the recent blends, is that you can actually eat while on it, enjoy the taste and flavors of the food, and remain altered. The food does not seem to have an overly grounding effect in moderate quantities (though a heavy meal will still tend to drag you down). Even Mo, who is not as devoted to the gustatory arts as the rest of us, seemed to take an uncharacteristic pleasure in the flavor of the simple foods we ate — cheese, raw vegetables with a flavorful dip, and grapes. Baldy declared the grapes to be the best he’d ever had, and spent the rest of the evening eating grape candies, drinking grape juice, and finally, grape wine.
After the feasting we spent another unfruitful period attempting to reboot the music station. At this point, I was feeling a little agitated at the technological fiddlings. Sensing my dismay and reacting sweetly, if inappropriately, Baldy retrieved his guitar from its place on the wall and began loudly serenading us.
I absolutely adore Baris’ music, but in that moment his playing sounded incredibly loud to my ears. I glanced at Selvari and could tell he felt the same. I grabbed his hand. “We’re going to the big bedroom,” I announced.
Selvari and I were soon hidden away under the covers, exploring what it felt like to touch each other in the wonderfully quiet room. The intensity was rising, I could feel my connection to him like an almost physical thing. He was just leaning over to kiss me when the other two appeared in the room, singing loudly to a Tellurian tune (something about a woman wearing jewels in sky?) which they had just downloaded.
Though I still felt wet as the Gurge and ready to go, the others seemed fully distracted from the reason I’d hoped to drag them there. Even declaring that I wanted to be touched seemed only to momentarily distract them — next thing I knew, Selvari and Baldy were having a loud argument over the latest sexfilms they’d downloaded off the Mesh, and whether the visual erotica of the 420’s was more appealing than it is today. Around this time, Mo declared the need to write and vanished for most of the remainder of the evening, though na rejoined us hours later for cuddling and sleep.
I was literally squirming in the sheets, reveling in their soft texture and the feel of my own skin against itself, but wishing very much that someone would touch me. “Why are you arguing about sexfilms when you’ve got me right here?” I said finally.
Baldy was crouched over me a moment later. I felt his hands on my wrists, pulling them off my own body and pinning them over my head. “You won’t hold still long enough for us to take you,” he said in my ear.
“That sounds like a challenge,” replied Selvari.
They took turns holding me down while the other plunged himself deep into my cup. I kept squirming, and I made a lot of noise, but it didn’t seem to discourage any of us one little bit. When Selvari finished inside me, I felt too overwhelmed and spent for any more stimulation, so I sucked on Baris until we all collapsed in a pile of happy cuddly flesh. Sensations seemed much stronger than usual, especially texture and moisture, and Selvari reported that his orgasm felt especially intense.
Sleep came easily to all of us as the sun rose.
We were all fairly tired the next day, but it’s hard to tell if this was a result of the substance or the circumstance — especially since Selvari and I had to get up before we were fully rested to deal with an out of control flamewar on another site. There were few side effects other than that, and some caffeine and gurgeweed had us all perked up by evening.
In conclusion, the whole modpod enjoyed the experience and would definitely try Starfish again.
Oh, what were we celebrating? Well, Continuous Labs just announced an open beta of a new feature for its M2I project. Because they’ve been pleased with our work here, we’re helping out as moderators on that project as well. Maybe we’ll see you there!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The term Secret Museum or Secret Cabinet (Gabinetto Segreto) principally refers to the collection of erotic or sexually explicit finds from Pompeii, held in separate galleries in the Naples National Archaeological Museum, Naples, Italy, the former Museo Borbonico. The British Museum also contained secret rooms.
Throughout ancient Pompeii, erotic frescoes, depictions of the god Priapus, sexually explicit symbols, inscriptions, and even household items (such as phallic oil lamps) were found. Ancient Roman culture had no sense of a shameful nature for all sexuality, and viewed sexually explicit material very differently to most present-day cultures. Ideas about obscenity developed from the 18th century to the present day into a modern concept of pornography. Although the excavation of Pompeii was initially an Enlightenment project, once artifacts were classified through a new method of taxonomy, those deemed obscene and unsuitable for the general public were termed pornography and in 1819 they were locked away in a Secret Museum. These even included the un-explicit statue Venus Kallipygos, only erotic to 18th and 19th century eyes due to her partial nudity and the exposure of her eponymous "beautiful buttocks". For good measure, the doorway was bricked up in 1849 (Garcia y Garcia et al 2001). At Pompeii, locked metal cabinets were constructed over erotic frescos, which could be shown, for a modest additional fee, to gentlemen but not to ladies. This peep show was still in operation at Pompeii in the 1960s (Hare 2003). The cabinet was only accessible to "people of mature age and respected morals", which in practice meant only educated males. The catalogue of the secret museum was also a form of censorship, where engravings and descriptive texts played down the content of the room.
The excavation of Pompeii was important to a range of powerful, and often conflicting, interests who saw the discovery of Pompeii as validating their own view of history, but at the same time excluded anything that did not fit the preferred model. Later Mussolini saw the excavation of Pompeii as validating the continuity of a Nova Roma. The presence of sexually explicit material, however, was problematic.
Re-opened, closed, re-opened again and then closed again for nearly a hundred years, the secret room was briefly made accessible again at the end of the 1960s before being finally re-opened in the year 2000. Since 2005, the collection is kept in a separate room in the Naples National Archaeological Museum.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
But before the story I want to give Mick a hearty, and well-deserved, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
He knew Billy wasn’t home --he had seen him and his dad go off to a baseball game, Billy in a Mets cap, his dad wearing a Yankees one-- and though he lingered on the stoop of their building for almost half an hour, hoping Billy’s mom came down to get the mail, or go shopping, or just come down so he could look up her skirt then follow her down the street and stare at her ass, her legs, her high-heeled shoes, she never did, and he finally got the brilliant idea to go up and ask if Billy could come out for a while.
That was pretty smart, he thought; maybe she’d open the door in bra and panties and garters and nylons and maybe she’d be sweated and sticky and hot and ask him to come
in and fuck her…Adults did that all the time, he thought; fuck each other; and Billy was getting into fist fights trying to defend his mother’s honor when he overheard what the guys had said they’d like to do his mom and her tits and her ass.
“Fuck, if I had a mom like that I’d be a mother-fucker!” they’d laugh, as Billy came out swinging.
But none of their moms looked like Billy’s mom: like a hard-on inducing slut. He had even seen his own dad grab his crotch at the sight of Billy’s moms swaying body and gasp “Jesus!” once she had wiggled past…
(And that night he heard dad fuck his mom as he lay in bed, listening to his mom protesting she was off the pill then grunting harder with his dad, while he masturbated and thought of Billy’s mom and wondered if his dad was imagining he was fucking her too…Ever since he had learned how to masturbate he had imagined Billy’s mom; and unfortunately, it was Billy who first explained how to do it, and though Billy confessed he always pictured the girls in their 8th grade class in their blue and white Catholic jumpers, their little school-girl breasts like sudden surprises just beginning to bud on their chests, each month a little bigger, a little rounder, he only envisioned Billy’s mom and her already full-blossomed bosom ready to choke and smother his face and body and throbbing dick.)
He squeezed his crotch, and started up the stairs…each landing doorway was like a crazed competition with another doorway of blaring TVs and radios, people arguing, couples screaming, children bawling, dogs barking, cats mewling, and each floor seeming to have one sax or guitar player and each of them seeming as conflicted with their instruments as their neighbors seemed with each other. Nothing wrong with my instrument, he smirked; she could stroke my drum any old time!
He stopped at Billy’s door: silence. Shouldn’t she be moaning and groaning from finger-fucking herself? Wouldn’t a woman who looked like that be in constant heat? He again squeezed his crotch. Then let go. Better not cum in your pants, not with Billy’s sex-crazed mom spreading her legs and squeezing her tits on the other side of the door.
Better save it for the cocksucker down her throat!
He touched the doorknob. It was hard and cold and black and dented but it felt like a soft tit. Like Billy’s mom’s soft tit. He squeezed, and shut his eyes, and imagined squeezing her tits as she wrapped her nylon legs around him. My little man! she’d coo,
My great big little man! Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!
He jumped away from the door. Was that a grunt? A yelp? A groan? Was she fucking someone else? Were all the guys already in her? Taking turns?
He knocked. But it was a soft knock, a hesitant knock, and probably a knock unheard, drowned out by the shouting above and below, the music all around, the barking, the meowing, the fear in his chest, his throat, his dick.
He knocked again. And someone did groan. Was she pulling a dildo out of her cunt to answer the door? He knocked harder, faster. A lock clicked open. He wanted to run. But he was tall enough to step right into her tits! Another lock clicked. He was very afraid. But knew if she slightly squatted he could fuck her standing up, right in the doorway, before Billy got home. He wanted to cry. The door opened.
He blinked, disbelieving. For a moment he thought he was at the wrong door, but no, it was Billy’s mom, Billy’s real mom, the big titted , sex-starved, lust-crazed mom who needed a licking, a sucking, a fucking, and she was a mess! She gaped at him through mascara-smeared eyes (one eye blackened by a punch, a three-fingered claw-like scratch running down one check), her usual puffed-up hair lank and mussed, her make-up pasty and flaked, her drooping smacking red lips smudged and faded. She weaved in the doorway, clutching the jamb with one hand, the other balancing herself on the opened door.
“Wha….?” she grunted, trying to focus on him.
He frowned; she wore a dirty torn t-shirt (ripped about her bruised choke-marked neck), and she was obviously braless, though her normally high, tight, round bulbous breasts were drooped and flattened inside the shirt, --only twin brown arcs of her nippled aureoles stood out in the dingy shirt. He stepped back; she wore Billy’s frayed lint-ball fuzzed football sweats (the faded and peeled white school insignia still evident on the right thigh), and she was barefooted, her polished pink toes insulted by the black dirt between them. He crinkled his nose; she smelled of whiskey, of cigarettes, of sweat, of old perfume and hair-spray, of urine, shit, and vomit, of unwashed women stuff. Behind her the apartment was a shambles.
“Wha….?!” she grunted again.
He took another step backwards, his arm out for stairway railing.
“I was just looking for Billy,” he quietly said.
From the end of the hall a door opened and a fat man peered out. Billy’s mom and the fat man looked at each other; Billy’s mom licked a lower lip, her top teeth yellowed and filmy. The fat man smiled, but stepped slightly back into his apartment, leaving his front door ajar. Billy’s mom winced, her face a confusion of rejection, pain, and hangover.
“He…he’s….not here,” she stuttered, blinking, and once more trying to focus on him. “He’s not here,” she sadly repeated, then brightened as the fat man reappeared and softly whistled from his open door. He held out a half-filled pint bottle of liquor and a pack of cigarettes and winked at Billy’s mom. She instantly propelled herself towards the fat man, one arm extended to the corridor wall for support.
“He beat me again,” Billy’s mom pouted at the fat man, and tried to grab the liquor bottle from him.
The fat man swung the bottle away from her and held it over his head.
“How long will your husband be gone?” he asked.
Billy’s mom mumbled something and the fat man smirked and lowered the bottle, pulling her into his apartment.
“Close her door, kid!” the fat man grunted at him, and shut his own door behind him.
He hesitated; then moved from the stairs to the open door. Billy’s apartment was even worse then he had glimpsed earlier. A table was turned over on its side, dishes and cups shattered, food rotting where it had been flung. A lamp lay broken at the other end of the room, and a large round area rug was pulled from under a crashed coffee table (one end of the table standing only on two legs) and was rumpled over the couch as if it had been used for a blanket. He sighed, and wondered what Billy’s room looked like (hell, he could swipe those girlie magazines Billy claimed he had), but he turned and checked the locks instead: they were spring locks and he clicked them to stay open, --it’s doubtful
Billy’s mom had her keys with her. He swung the door quietly shut.
On the crowded street he stopped before an appliance store and stared at a soundless TV in the store window. As usual, the Mets were losing; it didn’t even matter who they were playing. He wandered down a few more streets and suddenly recognized the young girl peering out of a third storey window. Sonia from school; Sonia who this year came to class with unexpected nice little surprises on her chest, round, peaked, high, with probably no need of a bra or support of any kind; Sonia who last month called him a faggot! when he didn’t ask her or any of the other girls to dance at the teen-hop, his mind
on stupid other things, big things, bigger things.
He smiled up at her. She pretended either not to recognize or see him but crossed her arms under the little surprises, shrugged her shoulders, and bulbed her chest into an even greater, larger, puffier surprise.
He collapsed on a stoop across the street from her, his penis stiffening, his eyes widening. Sonia faintly smiled, leaning up from her window, stretched, her arms high over her head, her ribbed red blouse popping out of her blue jeans and rising above her belly button.
He almost fainted. She looked down at him, smoothed and tucked her blouse back into her jeans, then turned from the window. He rocked his legs back and forth, smirked to himself, and as he hoped she wouldn’t, she didn’t take long but came out of her building, snorted at him across the street, then turned left and walked up the block.
He leaped up; but even with his erection he was able to dart across the avenue and quickly caught up with her cute curved blue-jeaned ass.
They rounded the corner together, laughing, joking, his eyes amazed at how beautiful and perfect and suddenly attainable her small breasts miraculously seemed.
But America has a very long way to go.
Celebrate all you want but read the following from Brenna Lyon and remember that we are still a country ruled by stupidity and bigotry:
I'm seeing red, with good reason. Why?
One of the best selling subgenres of erotic romance is M/M. At least three erotic romance publishers have reiterated to me in the last few days that M/M is their #1 bestselling subgenre, bar none. People are buying. A large portion of the erotic romance market is accepting of M/M.
In addition, we've had laws against hate crimes for a couple of decades. We've had (supposedly) tolerance taught in the schools. You'd think the majority of thinking adults would be properly taught to simply walk away from what they don't "approve of" or "want to try."
So, what did I wake up and find this morning?
Terri Pray and her husband Sam are part owners of Under The Moon/Final Sword Productions Terri and Sam were set to buy a house in Greene, Iowa. They had their loan approved, the bid on the house accepted, but Greene has a requirement that they have to have the final sale approved by the town. They weren't approved.
Now, why were they turned down? Terri and Sam, as I noted, are part owners of UTM/FSP. A portion of the business is run out of their home and a part out of the office, as it is with many indie presses. Between the two sides of the company, they have dozens of books out and contracted, everything from straight genre military fiction, horror, and fantasy to erotic romance of all sorts. To be honest, the lion's share of their books aren't even erotic. They have several major gaming franchises, including Honor Harrington gaming. They sell t-shirts and even audio CDs.
What does this have to do with the price of beer? It's simple.
ONE book, out of their entire stock, is a M/M erotic romance anthology, titled SACRED BANDS. While the townspeople of Greene, Iowa found the M/F erotic romance perfectly acceptable, they called the M/M erotic romance "gay porn." Some of them further stated (now, mind you...these aren't older people...these are 30-45-year-old people, which makes it all the more deplorable, in my mind) that publishing SACRED BANDS was "morally corrupt" and that choosing to publish the anthology demonstrated "questionable business practices."
In short, Terri and Sam lost their house, because the people who live in Greene, Iowa are a bunch of backward, homophobic dinosaurs. They lost their house, because (out of hundreds of items available from their business) one book is M/M erotic romance. The deliberations ended with the comment that Greene, Iowa didn't want to be "known for harboring a publisher of gay porn." KUDOS to Greene! You're now exposed for being a bigoted backwoods bunch of rednecks.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Advertiser supported model not well suited to fiction publishing on the Internet.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Portlaoise, Ireland 5 November 2008(www.declanstanley.com) -- Independent author abandons Internet experiment of posting book for free online.
For the past 18 months independent author Declan Stanley has been running an experiment on his web site http://www.DeclanStanley.com. Frustrated at being unable to find a traditional publisher for his novel "Alexandra" he decided to post the full book on his blog in the hope that he could make money from advertising revenue. "Lots of people came to my site to read my novel," says Declan. "But very few clicked on the adverts."
One of the problems is that Declan decided to use PPC contextual advertising. PPC networks such as those from Google and Yahoo allow anyone to place adverts on any web site or blog simply by cutting and pasting some code into their web site templates. The networks then scan the web pages for keywords and serve up ads based on the topic of the web pages. This works quite well for web pages that focus on a particular not fiction topic such as digital cameras or computer software. However from the point of view of PPC advertising the text of a novel is not well focused on a specific topic.
Choosing PPC advertising lead to irrelevant ads being shown on Declan's site. For instance there is a scene in Declan's novel where one of his characters walks through a door, walking through the door is not a major part of the scene it is just one paragraph, but on the web page the word door gets mentioned six times. This lead to ads for doors being placed on the page: new doors, screen doors, garage doors, wardrobe doors. "People reading an erotic romance are not necessarily going to be interested in purchasing a new screen door for their house, so nobody clicks on those ads," Declan says with a smile. And as any Internet marketer will tell you visitors not clicking on your web site ads means no income for your site.
"Another aspect of PPC ads is that they encourage your visitors to leave your web site," explains Declan. "I don't want people to go else where on the Internet. I want them to stay on my site and read my stories."
This is a perennial problem for any webmaster. It is a fine balance between keeping people on your site to build an audience and visitors clicking on adverts which give you revenue but take your visitors to another site.
I asked Declan if he had considered going down the Print-On-Demand(POD) route. "The first problem with POD books is the cost. They typically cost between $12 and $15 for a paperback novel. And then you have to wait five days, or five weeks, for it to arrive in the mail. People are not going to do that for an author they don't know."
So now Declan has decided to published his novel as a downloadable ebook straight from his own web site. Declan explains, "I chose to publish as a ebook firstly so that my readers could have instant access to my novel. And secondly so as to keep the cost as low as possible."
Are there any other advantages for your readers stemming from the fact that you publish ebooks.
"I provide the ebook in both PDF and RTF formats so no matter if people want to read my novel on a portable device, or on their computer screen, or even print it out themselves they are free to read it any way they wish."
Another aspect of the ebooks that Declan provides is that they are DRM free which means anyone can copy or print out his book. I asked Declan if he was worried about bootleg copies of his novel eating into his own sales.
"I wish I was so well know that I had to worry about bootleggers pirating my books," Declan laughs. "I think most people buy an author's book because they like the author's work and they wish to support the author and encourage them to write more books. I don't think bootlegging is going to be a major problem."
You can read the first five chapters of Declan's novel Alexandra on Declan's own site at http://www.DeclanStanley.com. He also publishes a news letter for the latest news and updates.
In the mean time we wish him the best of luck as he forges a path I am sure many more unpublished authors will be tempted to follow.
About the Author
Declan Stanley is an independent author, writing SF and contemporary erotic fiction and adult fairy tails. Sample chapters and free stories can be found on his web site http://www.declanstanley.com
Contact him on http://declanstanley.com/contact/
Friday, November 7, 2008
Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at email@example.com.
Helen E. H. Madden
(and here's a link to the original podcast)
Randy trudged up the steps to the front door of Luanne's house and rang the bell. There were a lot of places he wanted to be right now. Here was not one of them.
"Open the door already," he muttered, checking his watch. Man, he could have been at Jerry's watching football all afternoon, but nooooooo. He had to spend the day with Luanne's family. It was important, she'd explained, especially if they were taking their **relationship** to the next level. Randy wasn't interested in taking their relationship anywhere. He just wanted a blow job.
"Come on, baby," he'd urged the day before. "If you love me, you'll do this."
"And if you love me," Luanne had nagged, "you'll come visit my family tomorrow. It is Thanksgiving."
"Whatever," Randy had said. "I'll stop by and eat turkey, if that's what it takes to get you to eat me."
So here he was, waiting to gobble and be gobbled. Randy hit the doorbell again. Jeez, what was taking so long? At last, the front door creaked open. Randy straightened up. "Hey Jenny!" he said to the shambling creature that appeared. "Luanne invited me over for dinner."
"Uhn..." Jenny, Luanne's younger sister slouched in the doorway, her horn-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose. Her hair hung in greasy hanks about her pallid face.
"What's wrong? Stay up too late with your little science club to watch that meteor shower last night?" Randy pushed past her into the house. "What a dweeb!"
"Brains!" Jenny repeated, following Randy into the hallway.
"Yeah, you've got brains. Better you than me."
Just then, Jenny attacked Randy, clawing at his shirt to pull him down toward her gaping maw. Randy froze, horrified as her mouth enveloped half his face. Her tongue swirled around his ear and he shivered. It was creepy, but kind of sexy too. Yeah, he was being hit on by his girlfriend's sister. Randy snaked an arm around Jenny's waist to squeeze her ass. When Jenny groaned, Randy grinned. Man, this chick wanted him.
But wait. There was a reason why Randy shouldn't screw around with Luanne's sister. What was it? Randy reached for Jenny's boobs and tried to think. Jenny screamed "Brains!" once more as she tried to suck off Randy's face. That's when he remembered. Jenny was a nerd!
"Sorry kid," he said, pushing the struggling girl away. "I can't do this. You're a geek, and I'm really hot. It would never work out."
"Brains?" Jenny groaned.
"Okay, if it makes you feel better. You're too smart for me."
"Uhhhnnnn..." Jenny shambled off.
Phew. That had been close. Randy wandered into the kitchen, looking for Luanne.
"Hey, Mrs. Z," he called out when he found her mother, bent over the stove. For an old gal, she had a nice ass. "Luanne invited me over for dinner."
Mrs. Z groaned as she straightened up. "Luanne obviously gets her good looks from you," he said, ogling the woman's cleavage. "So what's for dinner?"
"Brains..." Mrs. Z muttered, coming toward him.
"Oh. I was kind of expecting turkey..."
Without warning, Mrs. Z grabbed Randy and slammed him down on the kitchen table. She leaned over him, mouth wide and hungry.
"Okay, brains are fine. Uh, Mrs. Z? Are you coming on to m--?"
Before he could finish the question, her tongue snaked into his mouth, probing, searching. Randy got hard fast. He'd never had a girlfriend's mom before. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, but he couldn't stop himself and he pulled Mrs. Z to him and slid his hands under her shirt, groping for her breasts. Her skin felt cold, but that was okay. He was hot enough for both of them.
Then as abruptly as she had begun, Mrs. Z broke off.
"Brains?" she asked. She stared at him vacantly.
"Don't stop!" Randy gasped. "You're my all-time favorite hot mom. We have to do this--"
Randy shrieked as Mr. Z walked into the kitchen. "Mr. Z! It's not what you think! I, uh... I slipped and fell and Mrs. Z was giving me mouth to mouth. Honest!"
Mr. Z shambled over and grabbed Randy by the head. Sure that he was about to die, Randy shut his eyes and screamed. Then he screamed again as Mr. Z's mouth came down on his.
"Aaaugh!" He pushed Luanne's father away. He didn't need a reminder as to why he shouldn't be making out with her dad. "Dude!" he shrieked. "You're a DUDE, and you're old!"
Those two facts didn't seem to bother Mr. Z, however. He lunged for Randy, who slid off the table and fled the kitchen. He burst through the door into the dining room, where he finally found Luanne.
"Jesus Christ, Luanne! Your family is nuts! First you're sister comes onto me, and then your mom. I don't mind that so much, but your dad?! I better be getting one hell of a blow job for putting up with your whacko family."
Luanne staggered toward him, groaning. Her face was grey and she drooled a bit. "Brains..."
"Brains?" Randy repeated. "What the hell is it with you people and brains?"
Luanne yanked at the waistband of Randy's jeans. His pants dropped to the floor. As she dropped to her knees in front of him, Randy yelped.
"Whoa! Hold on, Luanne! Your dad's in the next room. What if he walks in on us-- Oh shit."
The door to the kitchen swung open. Jenny, Mrs. Z, and Mr. Z all shuffled in. They looked at Randy and Luanne expectantly. "Brains?" Mr. Z growled.
Luanne pointed to Randy's stiffening cock. "Brains!" she replied. Mr. Z smiled and stumbled toward them. Jenny and Mrs. Z followed.
Randy looked at them all baffled. "What the hell is going on here? Luanne? Luanne? Why is your father... Oh my god! No! Please! Aaaaaauugh!"
It was the best Thanksgiving ever.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The Icelandic Phallological Museum (Icelandic: Hið Íslenzka Reðasafn) in Húsavík, Iceland (formerly in Reykjavík) is a museum devoted to phallology. As of July 2006, the museum houses 245 specimens displayed like hunting trophies, embalmed in formaldehyde, or dried in display cases. The museum attempts to collect penis specimens from every mammal in Iceland, including several species that are endangered or currently extinct in Icelandic waters.
Sigurður Hjartarson, a former teacher of history at an institute in Reykjavík, is the founder (since 1974, when he was 63 years old) and current director of the museum, which also exhibits a few specimens from mammals not living in Iceland, as well as folkloric specimens (alleged elves, trolls, sea monsters, etc.) and penis-themed art.
Although the museum does not yet have a Homo sapiens specimen, in the interest of advancing phallological knowledge, a patron (Páll Arason, born in 1915 and currently 93 years old) has donated, presumably posthumously, an affidavit for his penis.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
In 1962-63 I still remember the movie posters for The Chapman Report around Broadway which I saw one rainy afternoon. In the poster a high-heeled girl was sitting cross-legged and though her face wasn’t visible in the display it was clear that she was prepared to do something…to undress…to strip…to screw…or so I imagined…because at the time it seemed like she was in a rather short skirt just above the knee and just ripe for taking off, and holding a lit cigarette at that!
I recall how I hurried home and masturbated with the remembered sight of the luscious mysterious shimmer of her legs as a man was seated behind her and staring right at her. I must have seen that poster through the months as winter rolled into spring and my masturbating had intensified; it looked like the movie was going to run forever. I was just 15 and this was way before the Internet and even before DVD’s deleted a movie’s life span to just 2 weeks tops or maybe even 3 if it was a blockbuster like Indiana Jones or some such drivel.
On my usual wandering through the city streets in those days I’d occasionally pass by Mr. Dickey, who I tried to avoid, a neighborhood fellow who always stopped me and wanted to chat about what I was doing but would quickly end up talking quietly about sex. Well, whatever knowledge I had about sex came from my masturbation at home, in park bathrooms,
Mr. Dickey -- if that was his real name -- was a funny man; he always wanted to know just a little bit more about me than I was willing to tell him. When I’d run into him he’d tenderly greet me and try to rub against me, commenting about my muscles and fortitude and if I wanted to come up to his apartment and show him a thing or two trying to put his arm around me…well that always got me running away from him…
“No, thanks,” I’d always say and scurry off…strangely my later masturbation would be a lot stronger and more forceful than just the usual boring repetitive beating, exploding, collapsing and exhausting myself.
One day up around
“My, my,” he gushed. “So lovely to see you here,” and his voice went very low and hushed. “Tsk, tsk. In the adult area of the big city,” he leered and looked at me; somehow the fronts of our coats were pressed against the other and strangely I had grown as hard as I’m sure he was too; my face had turned incredibly red….
“I’ll bet you’re looking for a good movie to see, eh? I’ll treat you.” And he winked hopefully, turning to the movies on his right and across the street on his left. “Take your pick.” And his voice went low again, “my darling.”
As usual I wanted to get away from him, knowing what any contact with him meant, but being away from my neighborhood and little chance of seeing anyone I knew, I turned and looked over at the movie theater displays. My eyes immediately fell upon The Chapman Report, showing in a 42nd street theater but I frowned and shook my head knowing it wasn’t possible to see that film at my age; they still had moral codes in those days.
Mr. Dickey saw my sudden frustration; we were practically close to where our arms were in constant touch and rubbing to the others.
I told him, and he sadly but so knowingly caressed my arm --though I didn’t tell him about the actress whose legs I’d been dreaming and beating off to. I think he wanted to kiss me, and in another time and place, he probably would have.
“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “I know it’s not fair.” He brightened. “But I know where they will let you in,” he hinted, gesturing to Broadway. “Less people there and a little bit more expensive, but my treat,” again his voice went silent, “and more privacy, if you know what I mean?”
I looked at him but didn’t say anything; glad I was wearing a raincoat and hiding my erection. I followed him along up the street and we quickly came to the Loew’s theater on
“By the way,” whispered Mr. Dickey, “I’m your uncle and you’re nephew, if anyone asks; which I’m sure they won’t.”
I shrugged, but very nervous, and the ticket booth the female teller suspiciously looked at me.
“My nephew,” said Mr. Dickey, looking and smiling warmly at me. The ticket teller studied us then buzzed us through. I’m sure I breathed a sigh of relief and passed my way in.
We stood at the elegant red-decorated popcorn-smelling concession stand and I ordered popcorn and JuJu beans candy -- again Mr. Dickey’s treat -- and we made our way into the dark movie-screen auditorium. There wasn’t even a hint of nudity or any erotic activity on the screen, just constant talking but being in that sensuous place, like I imagined I was in, made me grow even harder.
We walked down the theater aisle to almost the front and I collapsed into a seat, unbuttoned my coat but left it on, glad I was sitting down. Slowly I nibbled on the popcorn as Mr. Dickey sat next to me, breathing very hard and deeply while staring at the side of my face.
I looked at the screen where Shelly Winters was having an affair, as Clair Bloom played an alcoholic nymphomaniac, while Jane Fonda acted out a frigid housewife and all aimed in the end to getting it and liking it. It was hard to focus and pay attention as Mr. Dickey moved his arm to my own and whispered, “It’s so nice here with you. Am very glad you’re with me. We can hold hands…it’s very dark here too…and no one will see.” And he paused, “you’re such a nice boy…”
I guess I shrugged since by then I had finished with my popcorn and felt his hand take my own. His fingers were gentle but very active, as if they were holding and caressing a toy bunny or rabbit, and I let the fingers persist in their motion and they caressed my hand and arm and moved to my lap. I was incredibly hard and when he bent down and his lips breathed in my ear at the side of my face his nearness and what was happening made me shoot off, the semen oozing onto my underwear and pants, imagining I was spewing onto Shelly and Clair and Jane all at once….
Needless to say I collapsed in that seat, exhausted and breathing very heavily then quietly whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Mr. Dickey looked lovingly at me -- I was certain he knew what had just happened -- and whispered, “Oh please, hurry back. I can’t stand being apart from you,” still holding my hand before letting it go.
Quickly I staggered to the back of the theater, avoiding the stare from the ticket seller who had let us in maybe 30, 40 minutes ago, and glad I had my raincoat, and went outside…
It was raining…I walked downtown in the drizzle and went home…
Years have gone by yet every time I masturbate I think of Mr. Dickey…and wonder whether he’s still waiting in the theater…guess he is…alone….Hey, but I never did see the beginning or end of The Chapman Report, we came in the middle…wonder how it went…guess I’ll never know….
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Remember if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Everything around in the drunk sleepy city stills, heaves around them with the rhythm of meat slapping meat, traffic moves in molasses time, flowing with the length of a thrust, the twist of a hip. Street noise muted, everything straining to hear the choked whimpering. Whimpering gives way to feral snarled epithets as only lovers can hurl. Yes, yes, yes even the trash blowing along a sidewalk blocks away seems to whisper that word, yes, yes, yes. Bodies in rooms in cheap flops surrounding the epicenter of fuck, not just fuck, fucking, the apotheosis of fuck. Le petit mort? No, le mal mort, the apocalypse of orgasm.
This fuck destroy language, this fuck demolishes civilizations, time and place. It is the return to the Cunctipotent, the elemental. Yes, yes yes.
Everything hears it, feels it. That throb between your shifting legs, the city is pitching, pulsating flesh ready, ready for the destruction of the Universe. The Big Bang that will create worlds within the flashes of incandescent light shattering the inside of their eyelids.
These lovers who wail finally, bodies and souls thrown into the muzzy light of the sleaze they have managed to push back with the exhalation of joy. The ascendancy of all that is holy, wet and full.
Soft lips trembling against soft lips, laughter as the world swells and returns, tries to triumph over these concupiscent lovers. Time has had no triumph over them, the Earthy wet that seeps between their thighs. The stink that rises from febrile, blasphemous skin. Time and civilization gives way to the lovers, until again they meet.