I wrote about my first and last foursome. It was sexy, geeky, and a lot of fun. Geeky sex is the best sex.

Here’s what editor Rachel says about the anthology:

The Lust Chronicles is my first foray into e-books, from the newly launched Ravenous Romance. I have NO clue how it’s gonna go, but I hope people buy it because these true sex stories are excellent, and the lineup includes many people I found via blogs and Twitter. Unlike my other anthologies, this one only costs $4.99! Woo-hoo! You can even buy it as an audiobook (for $12.99).

Here’s the table of contents:

Lust Chronicles Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Introduction – Truth is Sexier Than Fiction
Solo Sex – A Personal History by Zille Defeu
Luke Lushious by Lolita Wolf
Five’s Company by Mal Ross
Straight Seduced by Siren
First-Time Mistress by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Fedora by Jincey Lumpkin
Fairy Tale by Mia
Day at St. John’s by Heidi Champa
I Remember a Night at a Renaissance Faire by Eileen
The Anticipation of Joy by Max Lagos
Flogger by Alysa Adams
Room 3025 by Maria M. Diaz
Three’s Company For Two, Please by Val Strange
Letting Off Steam by Graydancer
Digital Manipulation by Alessia Brio
Sex in Dirty Places by Twanna A. Hines
The Consequences of Complaint by Alex M. Quinlan
Slow Dance by NookieNotes
Rocked Deep by Zaedryn Meade
Mile High Club by Devan Sagliani
Submit by Shanna Katz
Daredevil by Desiree
Kiss My Boots by Mollena “Mo” Williams
Notes on a Night in Bed by Jenna B.
Older Woman Appreciation by Mark Farley

Publisher Blurb:

The Lust Chronicles takes readers inside the minds of men and women who know how to get their kink on. Fantasies are fulfilled as they go to orgies, join the Mile High Club, seduce sexy strangers and do all the naughty things they’ve always wanted to try. In “Luke Lushious,” Lolita Wolf attends a summer sex camp and finds the man of her dirtiest dreams, while Alex M. Quinlan learns “The Consequences of Complaint.”

Here you’ll find an ode to older women, lust for a girl in a fedora, one woman’s love affair with public sex, and several passionate paeans to the lovers you just can’t forget. Readers will identify with their cravings for over-the-top sex, and get off along with the narrators as they recount every last intimate detail. Proving that truth is far hotter than fiction, the Lust Chronicles authors bare all, letting you live vicariously through their steamy, 100% true stories.

Also, thanks to Essin’ Em for writing this blog post for me. I admit, I stole it.

But I do have quite a thing for have my feet touched, massaged, or kissed. They’re a sensitive part of my body, and when May kisses the tops of my toes it gives me shivers that makes my hips roll and my neck tingle. 

And it is a lovely image to see my boy crouch and fold his body on the tail end of our bed, or kneel in a ball on the floor. There is power there, in the way that action frames us. I usually don’t last long, though, pulling him up and away so I can get my hands on his skin. He kisses my feet, it turns me on, I am ridiculously impatient and I always steal him away and upward. I have never mastered the odd art of sitting regally while my toes are touched, that image that floats around in our kinky minds of a reclining queen who barely registers the man at her feet.

But when it arrived, all shrouded in bubble wrap and cardboard, I laughed aloud. I had failed to realize the essential flaw in this sexy plan: the thing is fucking huge. It is the size of my forearm; I feel vaguely as though it could be used to skewer a donkey.

Needless to say, at this point in time I have no intention of having sex with it.

So it’s sitting on our dresser now, alongside its case, my library books, and glasses cleaner. Every once and a while I pick it up and wave it at my boy. I’d attach it to the strap-on harness, but we don’t have a ring big enough to hold the monster.

Eventually I’ll find a place for it, somewhere in our teak box between the nylon and the hemp. The box is overflowing these days, as the weapons and gear of our sexuality gather to us.

I like that we still work without the toys, that we are still kinky naked, with nothing but our hands and mouths and tongues. Last night I wrapped my arm around May’s shoulders and held his wrists in my hand. With my other hand I cupped his cock, and stroked the tip of my thumb up and down the length of him over and over, until he had tears in his eyes and he whimpered like an angry child. He still had his t-shirt on, a soft cotton thing that smells like Old Spice. When I stopped he was angry, although I saw him try to hide it. His frustration was very sharp, and he thrashed on the bed and whined.

I rested a little while, while he struggled and pouted at me, his hands writhing inside mine. I closed my eyes and drifted toward the very edge of sleep. But I could feel the scene still in the air, like ending a concerto on an open tone.

“I like you like this, when you feel owned,” I said to him. I like him when every breath on his skin thrills him. I kissed his ear, his neck, pulled down his collar and licked his collarbone, pulled up his shirt and dragged my teeth against the barbell through his nipple. I kissed down his stomach and when I put my lips to the head of his cock he shrieked, almost sobbed into the pillow.

When he came, arching his ribs so that he stood off the bed like a bridge of flesh through the air, he shot so far he hit his own neck and shoulder, white streaks all over the thin cotton. And as he came I couldn’t help but think of water guns.

“Ah ga buh,” he said, when he could say things again.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” I smiled.

“Buz ugu ma.” He slurred the sounds, closed his eyes, long fingers sprawled across his sticky belly.

“I think I have broken you. Have you forgotten how to speak?”

He nodded. We giggled a little, and when I pushed him off the bed to shower he walked in zigzags, holding one hand to the wall to keep himself upright, all fluid, heavy limbs.

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

“When are you going to fuck me?” he said in a tiny, tiny voice.

Now, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud. Instead I hooked a finger behind the steel ring around his neck and dragged him to his feet and through the bedroom door. I stripped his clothes off and left them in a trail of little satin puddles. I pulled tan leather straps and silicone from our new teak toy chest. When I bought the chest it came with a little card, detailing the history of the ships the teak was salvaged from.

I pressed him into the bed with one hand on the dip of his spine. He arched his back in the air with his ass pointing straight up, and I laughed and had to push him back down to get him in a position I could actually penetrate from.

He made the most amazing noises. He started by moaning vowels out low in his throat, like music. When I thrust faster he gave low boar-grunts that ended in little mouse-squeaks, and when I finally stopped and lay across his back he sighed so deep I could feel it curl his toes.

Tight blue jeans, preferably on the dark side of blue, tight through the thighs and stretched round and swelling over the ass. A button fly, a belt with maybe a little punk edge. Quirky, comfortable shoes. On boys, sneakers, on girls, cute low heels.

Gah.

On me: Black a-line tank top. Tight denim jeans, my heavy studded belt, my Converse rip-off sneakers. Hair cut short and in my face. Wallet in one pocket, knife in the other. Whip in my hand. It doesn’t matter what I look like, in the end.

There’s a place for the classics of fetish, and I do like leather sometimes. I do like those chest harnesses with o-rings in the center, and I do love a girl in a garter belt. But I would really, really love to go to a fetish party someday and be surrounded by beautiful bottoms dressed in casual white, and all the tops in Cons.

I’m sorry, did my life start to resemble a comedy routine for a moment there?

When I’m out in public, usually in bars or restaurants, I have a habit of lingering in bathrooms. I don’t have any particular yearning for bathrooms themselves, and I’m not usually into the kind of play one would associate with such places. And yet I linger, because it seems to me that most bathroom stalls are the perfect size for dungeon rooms. Interrogation rooms. Prison cells. Most public bathrooms have the right feel as well; that artless blend of grime and gleaming tile, metal pipes and sharp corners. I especially love it when bathrooms aren’t full of stalls, but instead are created via a network of tiny, closed rooms. I like how the doors lock. I stand in the middle of the little stretch of wet floor, feel the space between my shoulders and the walls, and imagine bodies huddled in the corners. I imagine creaking boots and leather gloves and the color red on white. I think about fists, and nightsticks.

And then I go back into the bar, curl back into my seat, sip my wine, and smile.

 Most pornographic stories are bad; a vast and sweeping generalization, I know, but I’ll let it slide for the moment. However, more often they are not so much bad as they are off target. They make me feel like ringing the author to say “Great effort, but the judges just couldn’t relate to your performance.”

 And it occurs to me that while many, many, many resources exist to enable better writing, not many resources exist that are specifically designed to teach a writer how to target their audience. In fact, I would venture that most of us can’t really manage to write for audiences unlike ourselves, even when we actually try to (and, let’s face it, most of us don’t even try.) Especially regarding this particular subject matter.

And look, I’m not talking about great literature here. I’m talking wank material. Brown paper wrappings. Not safe for work. Porn. Which can still be great literature; the two are not mutually exclusive, although they do entail different perspectives and skills. It’s a bit of an alien experiment for most of us, the writing of porn. I don’t often write it, and you readers never see it when I do.

So, in my half helpful, half rantish mood, I thought I’d give a little Cliff Notes version of how to target porn for an audience I might relate to. Namely, dominant women. (Solipsism? On a blog? Impossible.)

This is how to write porn for me. Not that I expect you to, and not that I’m anticipating that any of you actually will. But many people try, and the success rate is just too low to ignore. So if you’ve ever been curious how to write pornography that a dominant woman would enjoy, here’s my side of the story. (I highly encourage each of you to write your own list for your orientation as well. I’m tempted to meme that suggestion, but I don’t think the world really needs more memes.)

Onward, and leaving aside the obvious things like “write about kinky sex” and “yes, women read porn too” and “yes, male bottoms are sexy” and “yes, as a matter of fact I am queer,” here is the not-so-secret list of hints and tricks. 

1. Get out of my head.
Many of the stories I read are entirely made up of long, complicated inner monologues about arousal and angst and the contemplation of dominance. I give this tactic a great big failing mark in bright red pen. Remember the purpose of the piece. If you’re writing academic prose or fiction, go ahead and explore the psyche of your dominant character. Interesting? Definitely interesting. Sexy? Not sexy. Pornography is not contemplation. Pornography is action.

 One of the questions we keep asking about pornography is how the reader relates to the characters, i.e. what character will I choose to inhabit? As I have mentioned before, I usually resist “inhabiting” dominant characters, because they annoy me. Instead I will eroticise a third-person perspective of a story, or inhabit the character of the submissive in order to better translate their reactions into wankable material. I would rather not have to do this, but inevitably I find dominant women in pornography alienating and annoying, not because they’re behaving stupidly or doing something I don’t relate to, but because they just won’t shut up.

1a, related: Skip my orgasm.
Unless it advances the plot or is necessary to complete the story, you can leave out all of the bits about the shock waves and juiciness the me-character is feeling. Usually when I get to this part I skim over the lines, usually while thinking, “Been there. Done that. Trying to get there again. Don’t need a guidebook.”

2. Focus on the bottom.
Following very obviously from the above points is this; I don’t want the focus of my pornography to be on the character I’m supposed to be inhabiting, but on the character I find attractive. Or, as other women have said before me, omigod hot slaves! Get the view off the dominant and onto the submissive. I want the bottom’s monologue, the bottom’s reactions, the bottom’s screams, the bottom’s emotions. I want to read the side of the story that I find sexy. Shocker: that’s not me.

3. Write my kinks.
Obviously I would love it if every pornographic story I read was about the things I love. Wouldn’t we all? Give me harem slaves, give me cages and heavy metal, whips and chains, tenderness and flinching, slapping and strengths and service. Give me fantasy and living artwork and quirky details. Give me rituals, love, slavery, fear. Give me characters who are joyful, who are confident, genderqueer, beautiful, funny, sexy, smart, skilled. And especially, give me great long strings of language and all of those searing, desperate words I love.

4. Write your kinks.
My kinks aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, and as far as I’m concerned that’s fine. If none of the things I like get you off, then write about something that does get you off. Showcase your specific enthusiasm and passion, and the arousal will translate.

5. Write well.
I know that as you’ve been reading this you’ve been mentally gearing up for my (hopefully witty, you cross your fingers) contribution to the titanic outpouring of hatred against improper grammar, spelling, and punctuation that already floats about online. You can stop bracing yourself; you won’t get it. Two points on this:

Point the first: It’s porn, for fuckssake.
When it’s porn I really don’t care. I will not be brought back from the brink of orgasm by a misplaced apostrophe. (Honestly, if you’re brought back from the brink of orgasm by something so minor, I would suggest that you examine your grammatical hang-ups with a more critical eye.) In literature these things are important. In porn, frankly, not so much. I spoke out strongly against the Kushiel series recently not because they aren’t good pornography (they contain, in fact, some scattered moments of very good pornography) but because they aren’t good literature.

And point the second: Of course I would prefer proper grammar, proper spelling, proper punctuation, but good writing is not the same as these things. I suspect that many potentially good writers (pornographic and otherwise) don’t write because they fear being vilified over these aspects of their craft. And, of course, because on the internet there are no full time copy editors.

When I say “write well,” I mean to present developed characters, engaging scenarios, powerful interactions, and emotional growth. That sounds more complex than I could rightly ask for in pornography, but it’s actually a deceptive set of very simple ideas. A character can grow emotionally by simply moving from pain to acceptance. Our erotic imaginations have scenarios and interactions galore. As I said, pornography is about action. And as for character, which seems to stump so many people, hell, there are characters everywhere. Write slash if you don’t want to make your own. Appropriate your friends. Appropriate people you see on the street or meet in shopping centers. Appropriate your blogroll. I’ve been appropriated in pornography a few times in the past, and it always seems to turn out remarkably well.

And that’s it. It’s not a very long list, being the Cliff Notes version. But as May said last night when I was ranting the baby beginnings of this post at him, “Sex just isn’t that complicated.” And in the end, he’s right.

Now that I’ve written all of this down, I think I might just go write some pornography of my own. Who am I writing for? What’s on your how-to list?

Here’s what I wanted to say, the thing I probably wouldn’t say without that sweet white wine:

I also have an oral fixation.

May is siting across from me right now in a leather armchair, with his leg stretched out along the beige carpet, and when I look at him I think, “Fuck dominance, fuck dignity, all I want to do is lick my way up the skin of his legs, his hips, his stomach and neck, and sate myself in the texture of his hair. All I want to do is lay him down on our bed and let my mouth go roaming.” My mouth tingles with the thought, his soft, butter-smooth skin catching on my lips, opening to me, offering to me.

His skin is like vanilla ice cream. I look at him and want to eat him up with relish, like a delicacy. Earlier he brought me my wine in a tall water glass, and I pulled him up against the rough fabric of the couch, scraped my teeth over the fleshy head of his cock and tried like hell to ignore how much I wanted to just bite down.

There is a weird fucked up paradox that places want and need in submissive spaces. The part of me that is a drunken, dominant, desperate connoisseur is here to tell you: that is bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I want May so badly it hurts to look at him. My mouth aches for him. My fingers tingle when I think of touching his velvety, amazing skin. 

I want him. Fuck all the shit that says I shouldn’t want, that says I have distance and control. I have no distance. I barely have control. My lips pulse at him, the urgent need to just push him to the floor and devour, to pick him up and curl him in my arms and eat him whole.