Thursday, January 21, 2010

Please Stand By

As some of you may know, I'm in the process of moving. So posts and such to this and my other blogs are going to be spotty until I get settled in. But I promise to be back - and then some - when I get unboxed and hooked up again.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Teetbagging And All That Jazz By Ralph Greco, Jr.

Here's a great new essay by my buddy, Ralph Greco, Jr.

Teetbagging And All That Jazz
Ralph Greco, Jr.

Have you heard of 'teetbagging', I suggest you look it up. It's a 'remote' way of tickling your lover through the use of high tech-ier technology. Where we were once content with battery-powered vibrators we could flick to life either by oursleves or with a partner cuddling close, we graduated to remote controlled units our significant other (or others) could flick to life while we walked next to them in the mall, now it seems we can text or call a discreetly placed cell phone, via the world of twitter etc. and offer our lovers a few a few jolts.

All clean fun but it seems what I have feared is coming to pass, namely, as technology allows us ever more access to one another we are taking that access without ever really going out to physically interact with each other.

'Cybering' is no different then wacking-off to each other's well-spoken scenarios over a late-night phone call, sending salacious emails a few steps above writing someone a sexy letter or note, sex-ting pictures not much different then taking some snaps with dad's old Poloroid and leaving them in your boyfriend's bookbag. But, will there come a time when we step further away from each other because technology allows us to, it's simply easier or bespeaks some status?

Is that time nigh?

Last thing I want is to have sex with someone when they're not in the room. Sure, a few giggled suggestions over my cell most definitely peaks my interest and really, you want to take a few pics, send them along, I might even use them as my screen saver! But I hope I will never, ever think not having somebody there is better then having them there. I hope that I won't ever come to regard twitter as such a social revelation-and a true way to interact-that I will eschew true human contact or think I'm so cool cause because I not only know what a word like teetbagging means but also because I do it on a regular basis. In all these instances, I think of Spencer Tracy as Henry Drummond in 1960's Inherit the Wind as he speaks words written by Nedrick Young and Harold Jacob Smith-(got to give the writer's credit here, while ol' Spence acts fantastic he can't without the words man!).

"Progress has never been a bargain. You have to pay for it. Sometimes I think there's a man who sits behind a counter and says, 'All right, you can have a telephone but you lose privacy and the charm of distance. Madam, you may vote but at a price. You lose the right to retreat behind the powder puff or your petticoat. Mister, you may conquer the air but the birds will lose their wonder and the clouds will smell of gasoline."

Do me a favor and go watch the birds on occasion, ok?
Ralph Greco, Jr. is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800# phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.

The Life Of The Party

(from bigfun)

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Stella's Morning OR Rituals I Thought I Had By Jude Mason

Here's a very special treat: a great piece by a fantastic friend, Jude Mason -

Stella's Morning OR Rituals I Thought I Had
Jude Mason

This is a tough one for me. I honestly don't see myself having habits for writing. I just get up, do my bathroom duties, which you really don't want to hear about, dress, get coffee and head for the computer. Yawn! Five or six days a week, this pretty much covers my routine. More yawn!

So, I'm going to create a character who has a specific ritual she needs to follow in order for her to write. Let's see how this goes.

Placing her coffee cup in the sink, Stella Dark gauged the distance from the rim of the cup to the top left corner of the sink, the well-polished sink. She nudged the cup an inch higher and nodded.

She ran fingers through her hair, tugging out a knot then smoothing the wild mass of curls down. Her blouse, neatly tucked into her threadbare jeans, hugged her generous curves and wondered how quickly she could get to work. The manuscript was due in less than a week.

Checking the kitchen, she nodded then headed for the den, stopping only to twirl twice at each of the doorways she went through and skirting the rose patterned rug in the living room. It wouldn't pay to trod on that, she thought remembering her last short story and how it had bombed after she'd walked on the corner of the luxurious plush.

"Not going to do THAT again, for sure," she mumbled carefully sidestepping the dark brown fringe. When she got to the doorway to the den, she stopped and took a deep breath. Placing her toes on the threshold, he inhaled, then leaped into the room, as far from the entrance as possible, landing a good five feet in and again stopped, not daring to take a step.

She closed her eyes and recited her litany, "Today will be a good day of writing. I will allow nothing to interrupt me, nothing will tear my attention from my work. I will get at least two thousand words written."

This was the same thing she said every morning since she'd started this book. So far, it had worked and she was nearly finished it.

She checked her desk, saw the neat stack of papers on the top right corner. The printer on the left . The keyboard carefully centered, it's edge an inch (measured the previous day at quitting time) from the edge of the well-polished of the desk.

On her left foot, she hopped the six feet to the chair and sat down a little harder than she'd planned. She crossed her legs, but quickly uncrossed them and switched, re-crossing them the other way.

Stella leaned down and pushed the button, turning on her computer. She counted, slowly, hoping the count would be right. If not, she'd have to go back into the kitchen and re-do her entry. She'd once repeated it four times before the count had come out right. A waste of time and energy, but necessary.

"Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five," she whispered then smiled, saying a silent thank-you to whoever might be listening. Her screen blinked to life, her hands went to the keyboard.

Before she opened up the folder on her desktop, she glanced at the tiny green stuffed frog sitting on her tower. His lopsided smile always gave her encouragement. The larger stuffed bulldog didn't seem quite so friendly, but his attitude gave her strength.

"Okay, guys. Are we ready?" she asked the duo, a note of excitement in her voice. She loved the first seconds of creation, even if it was chapter 25 of some monstrous book she'd nearly completed. The initial few words of a morning always seemed the best. If only I didn't have such a horrendous pre-writing crap to perform.

Stella clicked her tongue and counted to ten, then typed, 'zyxwvutsrqp...' all the way to 'a'.

Done with her ritual, she opened the folder and found the ms, clicking on it quickly. When it opened, she scanned to the end page and read the last few sentences from the previous day's work.

"Ah, yes," she murmured and sat forward in her chair. Her fingers flew across the board, words flashed onto the page and images of the story flowed freely in her thoughts. She blinked only when her eyes burned, she mouthed words and smiled. Unwilling to slow down or stop, knowing their would be rituals for that too, she continued typing for the next two hours, non-stop.

Phew, and that's how Stella works. I'm very glad I'm not her, but you know, I'd do it all if I had to, I'm sure. Writing is that important.

What about you? Got a special pen you use, a toy that has to sit in a particular place? Anything that you need to do in order to get those juices flowing?
Multi-published Canadian author, Jude Mason, writes in a variety of genres and adores stretching the boundaries. The bulk of her work has been D/s and femdom, but she enjoyed straying into fetish, pulp fiction, m/m. f/f, paranormal and sci-fi, among others.. A picture, a smell, an unexpected glimpse of flesh, or a load of soil in the back of a pick-up, are all fodder for her writing. Her male characters run the gamut from the alpha male ruling his women with an iron fist, to a simpering purple-clad boy-toy, whose only desire is to please. As diverse and as richly depicted, her women find themselves in a myriad of exotic and erotic situations, and are as lusty as their male counterparts, of not more so. Jude has work in print, ebook form and audio

Interested, Google her name, you'll find her. ‘Readers needed: Come, explore with me…if you dare!'

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Excerpt from Sweet and Dirty By Christina Crooks

I'm very pleased to be able to share this great excerpt from Sweet and Dirty, By Christina Crooks.

Nora tiptoed to the bathroom, a huge, tiled affair with a bidet, double sink, and enormous glassed-in corner shower with six different showerheads and attachments. Even if she weren’t all sweaty, she’d have made an excuse to try out such a shower as soon as possible.

She turned one faucet after another: a waterfall cascade from directly above, forceful needles from the right, pulsating jets from the left (at thigh, belly, and chest height), and a segmented flexible steel protrusion that danced on her fingers when she fondled it, pouring a steady stream of warm water wherever she aimed.

She lathered up, shampooed, loofahed, then rinsed by turning in a circle with her arms wide open.

Sylvester’s large, graceful body, as he unfolded from the front steps of the B&B, appeared behind her closed eyelids. He wasn’t even that attractive… kind of ugly, she told herself emphatically, even as the driving spray and rivulets of water relaxed her.

His face was too serious, his nose too big and slightly crooked, his hair and brows unkempt. He had large hands. Probably was clumsy with them. Though maybe he wasn’t…

He’d scowled at her more than once. Didn’t he like her? Maybe he was playing some role, the stern-faced Master of the Mansion perhaps. That was it; he was pretentious, she thought with relief at having pinned a fatal flaw on the man. Now she could stop thinking about him.
Except she couldn’t.

She opened her eyes. The windows were steaming up.

What if he did appear in the bathroom? First as a faint shadow beyond the steam, then more solid as he approached… then opened the glass doors to the shower?

She smiled, imagining her reaction. He’d enjoy her fear, it would stimulate him. He’d already be naked, his cock enormous, rigid and intimidating as he stepped inside, knowing she had nowhere to run.

Water pounded her from all sides. Nearly all sides. Her eyes half-closed, she reached for the flexible steel attachment, warmed now by the constant strong flow of water. She aimed the flow between her legs.

Gasping at the sudden sensation, she saw him appear in her mind’s eye more sharply than before. She turned slightly. Needlespray assaulted her erect nipples, making her whimper. In her fantasy, Sylvester smiled cruelly at the sound.

He moved quickly, pinning her against the warm, wet shower tiles. He held her arms above her head, sealed her mouth with his palm. She was terrified, but more terrified to try to escape, to scream and have him hurt her, even though she could feel him pawing at her roughly, kneeing her legs open.

She could actually feel her body slide against the slick tiles at her back, the sharp needles of spray as she tried to evade his rough touch, struggling against the assault. She heard herself pleading for him to stop, to let her go, crying out as she felt the obscene probing between her legs when he thrust against her. She heard all his contemptuous, foul curses as he shoved his cock inside her, hurting her and filling her up, too much to take in. He pounded her mercilessly, and as always in the fantasy she envisioned the cock within her, so foul, forced deep: she came under the fierce, relentless plundering.

Then staggered as her knees went weak in the shower, alone with the sensation that went on and on.

She replaced the steel hose on its holder and let the gentle waterfall cascade over her again, washing her wicked thoughts away.
An award-winning writer, Christina Crooks lives in Portland, Oregon. Her work has been recommended by Booklist and has received commendations including an honorable mention in the Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her debut bdsm book, Sweet and Dirty (Kensington Books), is available now.