Sunday, February 28, 2010

Buy This Book: Coming Together Presents Remittance Girl

I'm sheepish. There I went, spouting off about my own Coming Together book when a good friend, and a magnificent writer, has her own collection supporting her own wonderful charity released.

I can't say enough great things about the mysterious Remittance Girl: her writing sparkles and shines, dances and flirts from each sentence to the next and - maybe best of all - she's a truly good soul. So go out and buy her own Coming Together collection: you will not be disappointed!


Coming Together Presents: Remittance Girl collects seventeen erotic stories by the mysterious and reclusive Remittance Girl. Open the cover and enjoy incredible tales of twisted desire and overwhelming lust, intricate and perfect as some Chinese jade carving.

An expat living in Vietnam, RG deftly captures the realities of life in Southeast Asia: the debilitating heat and humidity, the riotous energy and color and the loneliness of being an outsider. However, she's equally at home in gritty British suburbia or the beaches of the Costa del Sol.

Don’t expect light-hearted tales of playful sex from RG’s pen. Don’t expect romance—though sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish true love from satisfied desire. Be ready for tales with an edge, with a sting, and occasionally, with a moral. While many of RG’s stories are vividly realistic, some of her offerings are fables: unsanitized, old-fashioned fairy tales that retain a taste of terror.

RG’s writing strikes to the heart of the erotic. Her sex is strong and messy and real. She is not afraid to explore the darkest, rawest fantasies. When she writes kink, it’s not fashionable sex games—it is inevitable, compelling, inescapable, cutting to the core of her characters.

In this volume, Coming Together is delighted to present Remittance Girl, whose chosen charity is the ACLU.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Coming Together Presents M.Christian - Out Now!

There's special and then there's really special, and this brand-new book of mine is definitely the latter. Coming Together: M.Christian is a collection of erotica featuring both 'classic' stories plus never-before-seen tales - but the best part is that the proceeds from the book are all going to one of my favorite causes: Planned Parenthood!

Here's the official announcement (and click here to order the book from amazon):

Presents is Coming Together's elite line of single-author titles edited by Lisabet Sarai. ALL proceeds from their sales will benefit the charities selected by their authors. In this volume, Coming Together is delighted to present M. Christian, eroticist extraordinaire, whose chosen charity is Planned Parenthood.

Coming Together Presents: M. Christian offers an assortment of vintage and previously-unpublished tales by the astoundingly versatile smut-master M. Christian. The stories range from the leather bars of San Francisco to the deserts of Mars, while the characters include rock-and-rollers, dykes with attitude, horny office workers, tortured artists, inter-galactic lawyers, even Mona Lisa. The atmosphere is tough and gritty in one tale, lyrical in the next, and teasingly tongue-in-cheek in a third.

M. Christian's erotica incorporates an expansive view of sexuality. His characters are not prisoners of their labels. They grow and change in the course of the story, and that change might involve crossing the artificial lines between straight and gay, femme and butch, dominant and submissive. In these tales, sexual orientation is a continuum. There's only one constant: their emotional intensity. Whether he is penning cyber-punk or satire, gay romance or lesbian smut, M. Christian's vivid characters hang around after the covers are closed and the lights are out.

The Imaginistic Beauty Of Thomas Hodges

I really love it when people send me things for FF ... and I really love it when they're as special as this: Thomas Hodges is a wonderful photographer with a delightfully imaginative eye. His images are haunting and, best of all, gloriously sexy. Thanks, Thomas!

"Thomas has a unique artistic style, which he terms "Imaginistic", leaving the onlooker to deduct the ultimate conclusion of what his images portray. In December 2006, he established the Art Movement "Imaginism", primarily to accommodate his own artistic style, and in compliment to the poetic movement of the same name.

Thomas is inspired by female beauty, capturing the sensuality and sexuality of woman, which remains his principal subject matter. His works within the “art-nude” and “erotic-nude” genres have now gained international recognition, and Thomas has works in both private and public collections worldwide. Thomas also works to lesser degree as a commercial photographer, shooting exclusively fashion, beauty and Lifestyle for editorial, advertising and commercial purposes.


In 2006, Thomas won a prestigious “Nominee Award” in “The Black and White Spider Awards”, and a further 5 Nominee Awards in the 2007 competition. He also won “Nominee Awards” in the 2006, 2007 and 2008 “Photography Masters Cup”, and received “Honorable Mention” awards in the 2008 and 2009 IPA-Lucie Awards. In 2009, Thomas was also a winner in the London International Creative Competition (LICC), for his art-nude series "Wrapped"."

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Heels Have Feelings Too By Tom Kennedy

This is a very special treat: a brand new piece by a great writer, Tom Kennedy (who also gave us My Principals). Write and send more, Tom. Write and send more!




Heels Have Feelings Too
By
Tom Kennedy


Oh heel of the bread, how disappointing your life must be! Charged by fate with guarding the rest of the ‘normal’ slices from the ravenous effects of air and time, you are continually passed over by the hand and never selected. Oh how desperate your existence!

I have an aunt who covets the heel of the bread. She always gets it with little or no protest from anyone because most of us shun the heel. We open the bag and never consider for a minute actually eating the heel. And why should we? The heel has a different function but has anyone explained this to the heel? How could the heel know its purpose in life? Concieved by chemistry of grain and heat, birthed from the mother oven, the bread is born into the world knowing only what we all know; we are here; and not knowing what we all don’t know; why?

Only humans complicate this question. The rocks and plants know their destiny. It’s safe to assume the bread does also.

But the specific question is, does the heel know its distinguishing purpose? It’s probably expecting to fufill its lot by becoming a sandwich or perhaps toast. Maybe the heel dreams the most fantastic dream of bread; dipped, sweetened, and fried into the golden brown of the most elegant fortune that bread could possibly aspire to; French toast.

Sadly, for most heels their dreams of transformation and rebirth will go unfulfilled. Each day the bag opens and the heel thinks “It’s my turn now!” only to suffer the disappointment of being passed by, the other slices going happily to their end. And as the slices disappear the heel must surely think “What’s wrong with me? I’m a slice just like the rest.” But it isn’t.

It’s too bad the heel can’t read Hamlet. Then maybe it would realize that it’s thinking about it too much. It needs to accept its place among the slices. It needs to understand its special purpose, unique shape and priveldged position. It needs to be the best heel it can be.

What about the other heel deep in the end of the bag? It doesn’t suffer the daily let down that the outer heel feels. Each time the outermost heel is disappointed, each time the other regular slices are chosen, the end heel must think “It will be my turn soon!” oblivious to its fate, happy in its ignorance (unaware of its ignorance) and blissful with anticipation. What a devastating reality lurks in its future!

Then the day comes when the last of the slices have gone to their destiny. The outer heel, desperate and broken by now, finds out finally that it’s not alone. And the inner heel, daily filled with hope and anticipation, on that fateful day embittered, overwhelmed, distraught and confused at being left in the bag, also finds out it is not alone. Then together the two, more alike each other than like any of the slices, united for the first time, oblivious to the other’s existence until that moment, hopefully find solace in their union as they go together to their final fate, dried and ground into breadcrumbs or broken and scattered for the scavengers or simply, ignobly, thrown out.

Oh heel of the bread don’t despair! Maybe my aunt will choose you first and you will be spared the disappointment of your uniqueness. You will remain happily bereft from the anguish of being overlooked and you will be fulfilled. The rest of the loaf will assuredly envy you.
Tom Kennedy is a writer with a sarcastic manner, an aloof gait and a misguided sense of belonging. He struggles to remain blissfully ignorant of his crimes in the banal environs of Northeast New Jersey.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Saturday, February 20, 2010

The Difficult Life and Terrible Times of Being Fictional By Ralph Greco, Jr.

Ralph Greco, Jr will always have a place here at Frequently Felt - as he's a great guy as well as a kick-ass writer. Go get 'em, Ralph!




The Difficult Life and Terrible Times of Being Fictional
By
Ralph Greco, Jr


You think you got it tough? Trying being Sandy and never having had time to lift your leg while Annie ran you ran you though the White House and avoiding Miss Hannigan. Or how about poor Mary Anne's unrequited love life for the Professor (how the guy never noticed her in those fucking shorts I'll never know) or you get railroaded into a Georgia jail when your sister did it all along and Vicki Lawrence of all people has a hit record with your story!
Or how about…

1.) Harry Potter and The One True Pussy: If you haven't read the series or by now haven't finished the books…sorry if I am spoiling. For what it's worth, here's my take on what I felt were a bunch of great books, maybe the most fantastic series of fantastic literature featuring youthful protagonists since OZ or Narnia: Harry only ever got one with one girl!

At the end of the last book Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows there is an epilogue set 19 year later, with a grown-up Ron and Hermione (now married) and Harry and Ginny (also married, with kids no less!). Assuming that Harry has been Harry all along, a solid, highly morally structured dude, we can only assume once he and Ginny got together-as they truly did in this book-that they have been together all this time. Therefore, it's implied by J.K. that-you guessed it-these two only ever had sex with each other! Sure, either could have been away from the other for a prolonged period of time, Harry off helping on some magic errand, Ginny doing…well whatever Ginny would do, but really, I imagine these two sending owls back and forth three times a day well before Harry would show his wand to another skirt or Ginny let some Muggle give her the high hard one. Imagine you're Harry Potter, Harry F'n Potter dude! and you don't trade on that popularity for a little poon? Shit, and I thought it was hard for Dumbledore having to be headmaster with all those growing boys running around!

2.) Apollonia 6 gets stuck at 'The Taste'. Morris premiered Apollonia 6 at 'The Taste' showing off his girl group to Billy in the hopes of moving them into the Kid's slot over at the bigger, more popular "1st Ave" club. The Kid was being squeezed out as Billy warned him, so the very next night The Revolution stepped it up a notch, performed Wendy and Lisa's "Purple Rain" and The Kid and his band redeemed themselves. But what about Apollonia 6? Yeah, big hoop-y earrings and inaccurate mouth kisses are one thing, but The Kid dissed his big-breasted girlfriend quicker then you can say Lake Minnetonka, leaving her and her garter-ed sisters to the minor leagues playing 'The Taste' for God knows how long.

3.) Bruce Wayne's lonely pole slide. Say what you want about having a 'youthful ward', Bruce Wayne was a lady's man through and though. He had the style and the bucks, the haircut and ascots; the dude was styling for some trim. And as Batman, well what girl wouldn't slide her panties down for a man in a cowl?

Either way, the guys got girls everywhere.

First, as Bruce Wayne, he's got countless ladies on his arm at all those Gotham city social occasions and as Batman…well there was always Catwoman! But more often then not, Bruce is out someplace on the town with some beauty and Bam, Socco, Platt, he sees that light and he's got to split, or just before he's about to get Julie Newmar's lengthy gams round his neck, or hear Eartha Kitt purr something naughty or even have Lee Meriwether give him a Miss America "special", the naughty ladies are whisked away by the law.

Alfred fire up the Bentley and let's go cruisin' man!

4.) Is this really my family? (Although you need to watch closely; there were two actresses who played the part, ala Darren Stevens, during the series run). Poor pretty normal Marilyn Munster might have had dates but you know damn well they weren't sticking around long (or at least never getting' down) in that cobweb-y mansion. Not only is it hard being fictional, but try being the only 'normal' one in the whole household.
And her aunt was so so foxy!

5.) There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A… Shoe? Hasn't anybody heard of Norplant? Really, you have all these kids, the husband obviously splits after he fathered the last one (if we are even to assume there's only one father!) and he leaves her in a fucking shoe?! Dude, come on!

There's more, oh so much more, but I'll lave 'um for another time. I got to go turn on the T.V. and open a book.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Private Dick By Fulani

Here's a special treat: a hard-boiled, hard-core tale by Fulani. I think you'll agree with me that you'll want to see more by him ...





Private Dick

By
Fulani


The dame was waiting in the dump I call my office. She was a looker; long blonde hair, short skirt, high heels. Coulda walked outta the pages of some adult mail order catalogue.

Hell. I remembered. She did walk straight off a page from the one on my desk, under the tax bills. I poured bourbon into two chipped shot glasses, offered her the cleaner one.

“What’s up, babe?”

“I need you to track someone for me.” Her voice was low, husky, the way it can get when a woman’s mouth has had too many… I stopped the thought right there. I didn’t need the hard-on.

“I run a mail order company, the adult kind,” she told me. “There’s this guy. People call him the Professor. Word is, he’s invented some new sex toy that makes people incredibly horny. I want to find him, and get the rights to sell it. Or find out how it works, and get someone else to manufacture it. Whichever.”

“Sure,” I said. “Where do I start looking for him?”

She shrugged. “That’s your job. What’s your daily rate?”

I smelled her perfume. It was expensive. I told her double my usual rate and she didn’t even blink. “What about a retainer?” I asked.

“I can do better than that,” she said. She came round my side of the desk and put those silky knees on my crummy floor. She showed me why her voice was low and husky. I’d needed that hard-on after all.

***

Mandy was always a good lead. The lap-dancing club is never busy until late in the evening. We talked while she swayed and shimmied in my face.

“No one here’s mentioned anything like that,” she said. “But then the punters don’t talk much, and among us girls, you’d be surprised what counts as a turn-on.” She did a twirl. “See Devon, two tables along? She’s into–” and her voice dropped to a whisper, “computer programming. She’s paying her way through a Master’s degree.” Mandy brushed up gently against me. “Anytime someone mentions Linux, she goes gooey-eyed and breathes heavy.”

The music stopped and she fought her way back into the tiny outfit. “Try the pro dommes,” she advised.

It’s a hell of a job when you can claim a lapdance from your son’s girlfriend on expenses. But I’d have to change my underwear before I could follow up her leads.

On my way out, Devon tried to persuade me to have another dance. I spoke to her in code. Left her panting for more.

***

Finding a pro domme was easy. I just called the number on one of the business cards I found in phone booth. Mistress Anjelika.

“No funny business, I just wanna talk,” I grated.

She smiled. “They all say that the first time, dear. But if your money’s good, it’s your call.”

She’d heard nothing. She showed me amyl nitrate, whips and canes, a thing called a violet wand she claimed was her specialty. None of it was new. The violent wand was a real antique, made in 1926 according to the label on it, and still working.

“Try the swingers’ clubs,” Anjelika suggested. “But can’t I tempt you to a little caning, just to remember me by?”

“I said, no funny stuff,” I reminded her.

“OK, fine,” she replied with a grin. “But you’ll be back. They always are.” She looked at the clock and said my time was up. She reached out to shake my hand. I didn’t realise the violent wand was on and she was holding the terminal.

Sparks flew between us.

***

As a single male, you can’t just walk into a swingers’ club. Sure, I could persuade the bouncer. But this was supposed to be undercover. I spoke to Mandy, who spoke to Devon. She came out from the club after her shift, wearing a dress that was more holes than material. Not that I was complaining.

We interviewed a dozen couples. Nothing. No one had heard of anything like the Prof’s gizmo. They were keen on dripped liquid chocolate, though, and the special type of lube that gives a warm feeling when you use it.

Devon liked the lube. I just felt ill and bloated from all that chocolate.

I got one clue. A fetish club where new and extreme stuff was all the rage.

When we left, around dawn, I nearly forgot my hat.

***

To get into the club, I had to play dressup. Leather pants, an Errol Flynn style pirate shirt. I’m supposed to be a private dick, but it felt like I was going to make a dick of myself in public. What the hell, I’d add emotional injury compensation to the bill. I kept my battered trilby, though.

“The Professor? He’s a bit of a recluse these days.” I was talking to a character whose main form of body covering appeared to be piercings. Everywhere. He was a living, breathing pincushion.

“So how do I contact him?”

The guy sniggered. “You don’t, not unless someone introduces you.”

“And you could introduce me?”

He shrugged. I snapped, and yanked on a huge metal ring connected to his nipple. It made him gasp.

“Well, if you do that some more, I’d think about it…”

It was more fun than I expected.

And I kind of liked the feel of the leather pants.

***

Pincushion made a phone call.

The house was out in the suburbs. It was nothing fancy. I rang the doorbell, and a small guy with greasy hair and three-day stubble answered it. Pincushion explained who I was. The guy blinked twice and let us in.

The Prof lived with a girl maybe half his age. Long black hair, good legs, slim build, wearing a tight rubber minidress, thick leather wrist cuffs – and fluffy slippers. Whatever turns you on, girl… She made coffees and left us to it.

It would be easy to steal the gizmo, if that was what it took. Assuming I could recognise it under the litter of books, papers, filleted computers and half-built electronic gadgetry.

“The thing is,” the Prof explained, “everyone is used to consumerism these days. They expect every new sex toy to come in a nice box, with instructions. They expect it to require batteries, maybe even a mains power supply. Or feel good when you strap it on. They expect something that makes you feel like a god, or a goddess.”

Where was he going with this?

“So lately,” he rambled, “I’ve been working on the ultimate sex toy. Something that doesn’t come in a box, doesn’t need electricity, doesn’t need to be strapped on, but still makes you feel like a god. In your case. Unless you particularly want to feel like a goddess, of course?” I laughed. Then I realised it wasn’t a joke, he knew people with all kinds of kinks.

“If you want,” he said, “I can show you what I’m working on.”

He led me to a small back room. It was empty except for a rug on the floor, candles in little glass jars around the walls. He lit the candles, told me to sit on the rug. There was a blank wall in front of me.

“Just think,” he told me, “that on the other side of that wall is young Starlight – the girl who brought us the coffee. This room, the whole room, is a kind of device. If you try, you can see her through the wall. You’ll see what you might do with her, what she might do with you… I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy.”

Nothing happened for a while. But then, in the candlelight, I could see a shape, dimly. The wall wasn’t as smooth and regular as it looked. There were legs akimbo. Breasts smooth and constrained by the rubber of the dress. Arms splayed out in different directions, held by the wrist cuffs she’d worn. Head back in ecstasy, hair flying everywhere.

My leather pants felt like they’d split under the pressure.

Eventually I snapped out of it, realised I could hear low voices from the other room. I went to find them. The Prof, Starlight, and Pincushion were sitting in armchairs, sharing a bottle of single malt. They were having a conversation about the best vegetables to plant at this time of year.

The Prof looked up. “I see it worked,” he observed dryly, looking at the bulge in my pants.

I shrugged. “So what’s the deal? Wires embedded in the walls? Some drug mixed into the candles?”

The Professor cackled until the single malt spurted out of his nose and he started to choke.

Eventually he recovered the power of speech.

“The ultimate sex toy,” he replied, “is something I call imagination.”
Fulani is socially isolated, often insomniac and suffers from a highly deviant imagination. You don't want to know about his personal life. No, really you don't. His stories appear in Erotic Review and are included in a new online e-Xcite anthology. His first erotic novel will be published in 2010 by Pink Flamingo.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Excerpt From Rock My Socks Off By Jeremy Edwards

Jeremy Edwards is no stranger to Frequently Felt: his "Karkataka or How the Crab Got Its Knees" is one of the most - if not the most - commented-on story ever to appear here. His stories are always wonderful and, believe it or not, he's also a really great guy. Here's a special treat from Jeremy, an except from his new novel Rock My Socks Off.


Excerpt from

Rock My Socks Off
By
Jeremy Edwards


'Remember, Jacob,' Normandie said valiantly, 'they were originally made for children.'

'Quite true,' he said. 'I don't blame the children. Kids just hop on and ride. They can't be expected to have good aesthetic sensibilities. The important thing,' he added grudgingly, 'is that they have fun.'

'The important thing is that we have fun, too,' said Normandie, stroking Jacob's arm. Then she whispered, 'I forgot to wear panties today.'

He pressed his fingers against the lightweight fabric of her summer skirt, and verified what she'd just told him.

She smirked. 'And what was that you just said -- "hop on and ride"?' In another moment, she had straddled the largest -- and possibly the most hideous -- rocking horse in sight, one that had evidently been built to accommodate an entire small family of aesthetically undiscriminating children.

'Dee!' Jacob knew that the officious management could walk in at any time.

She looked back at him, with a challenge in her eyes. 'Hop on and ride,' was all she said.

It was an offer he could not refuse.

'Don't you get turned on by the thrill of possibly getting caught?' she asked as he snuggled up behind her and the contraption began to jiggle equivocally beneath them.

'No. Personally, I'm more into the thrill of *not* getting caught. However, I'm turned on enough by your bare cunt on a rocking horse that the getting or not getting caught is incidental.'

While clinging to her waist with one hand, he reached underneath her with the other and nestled his fingers into her wet spot. They would just have to hope that this additional layer of varnish wouldn't damage the antique finish.

Sensuously, they began to rock, their combined weight easily directing the horse back and forth. Jacob kept two fingers firmly implanted in Normandie's pussy, and as their bodies travelled to and fro the fingers did the same: a delectable microcosm.

His free arm was wrapped tightly around her, and he could feel her heartbeat reverberating through her entire torso. She was rocking within the rocking -- she was evidently using the sculpted saddle horn to generate the friction she needed against her clit. Soon she was coming, her cunt clenching and her firm bottom pressing frantically against his stiff crotch. He wondered how he was going to dismount from the ridiculous vehicle under the burden of such a huge hard-on.

With the grace of a lewd ballerina, Normandie scooted herself 180 degrees, using her slippery, gaping snatch as a fulcrum. Once she was facing him, she unzipped his jeans while Jacob rested his hands on her shoulders. They rocked more slowly now, her ass doing the work. With a glint in her eye, she reached underneath herself to moisten her hand, then stroked him, rocking all the while. She brought him off quietly, directing his spurts of release right onto the summer fabric of her lap. Then she kissed him, as if the mess had been his gift to her.

'I may have to reconsider my opinions about rocking horses,' said Jacob.
The erotic fiction of Jeremy Edwards has appeared in over thirty-five anthologies, including several volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series. He is a frequent contributor to print and online magazines, and a live-reading alumnus of New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon.

Done!


It may have taken a wee bit longer than I thought but - whew - I am now moved in and ready to begin to live again. Thank you all for your patience and understanding. Going forward I promise not just the same as before but bigger, better, wilder, stranger, and (better yet) even more fun!