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New Virgin Mary-Inspired Poetry: The Madonna Comix

June 11, 2014

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Our friend Celia Bland, who works at The Bard Institute for Writing and Thinking, just down the road from us, recently published a book of poetry called Madonna Comix. It’s a large-format, fine art book that was a cross-country collaboration with the artist Dianne Kornberg; the poems feature the Virgin Mary in various modern-day incarnations: vending machine, bomber, girl going to prom, etc. (With a foreword by Luc Sante, another neighbor of ours up here in the Hudson Valley. Because we’re not the only creative types to have forsaken New York City, though we’re pretty sure we’re the only sex writers in our country bumpkin zip code — reason enough to move here, we suppose.) A few months back, we wrote this about Mark Bibbins‘ new book of poetry, They Don’t Kill You Because They’re Hungry, They Kill You Because They’re Full: “He will convince you poets are sexy and dreamy and powerful and relevant.” We’re happy to have further proof now in the Madonna Comix.

Immediately below is a short essay by Celia on her project and why she was drawn to the Virgin Mary — and what the Madonna means to her as a modern woman (and as a poet who “kind of specializes in poems about sex,” she says). Just below that, after the jump, we are thrilled to publish three poems and three illustrations from the book:

The Madonna Comix were originally Captions for Cartoons Not Yet Drawn.  I imagined the poems’ stanzas appearing as comic strip captions beneath empty boxes – the panels drawn with different thicknesses of line but always empty.

The poems, you see, were about emptiness – a metaphorical emptiness as concrete as the air space where the Twin Towers once stood.  I’d worked as a temp in Tower B and at noon every day that summer, I’d sat in the shadows of a desolate wind-swept plaza eating peanut butter sandwiches and hating my life.  Looking back at my internal emptiness, so unaware of how the world could and would soon change, my complaints seem so petty, so personal.  The poems written afterwards stung with self-rebuke, a kind of loss focused on my ideas of Mary, mother of Jesus.

Despite the poems’ sometimes smart-alec-y lines, I remain deeply moved by the Blessed Mother.  I see her bereft at the foot of the cross, palms up in a gesture of acceptance, as in my poem “Education of the Virgin.”  Mary breaks my heart.  She does not rail against fate – Why hast thou forsaken me?  She has the patient heaviness of pregnant women – that almost-bewildered delaying of self for another day, another day, before blessed release.  I see her as a kind of shape-shifting superhero.

I wrote these poems in short lines and with some sense of the many roles women play: pregnant and scared, birthing and scared, mothering and resentful, joyous, bored, nurturing and self-abnegating. A woman who fell at the foot of the cross, beneath the corpse of her son, in a dead faint. A woman pressed into service. A vending machine for babies. A figure of maternal longing and infinite pity.

One day, wandering into an exhibition of text-inspired images at the Chicago Cultural Center, I saw Arachne, a collaboration between artist Dianne Kornberg and poet Elizabeth Frost, I decided that, yes, perhaps my poems could be captions for cartoons drawn.  So I mailed her a series of poems about the Madonna—Mary as pelican, as bomber, as vending machine, as bereaved mother. Dianne responded enthusiastically to my ideas.  She found some black and white negatives of photos she’d taken years before of a dancer seven months pregnant.  These became the basis for Madonna ComixLittle Lulu bleeds through, a pentimento.  The comic balloons for exclamations and jokey asides suggest the strange teardrop wombs that enclose medieval Madonna’s.

None of this is solely my invention, of course. Mary has always been, in the words of British historian Helen Hackett, a repository of “contradictory impulses towards the female body, including desire, fear, idealization and prurient fascination…” Pray to her to advocate for us lowly mortals, to intercede with a distant god. Always, when the Catholic missionaries came to a place, they supplanted the fertility goddesses, the Venuses of that place, with a Mary fashioned of clay and magic. This virgin, chosen by god, impregnated by him, not in Zeus’s golden shower or in the shape of a satyr or a husband, but by a white bird, bearing a word: that is, the word made flesh.

Making Mary, in my own mind, at least, most especially the protector of those laborers of the word.

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New Beach Read: Social Death (With Naughty Bits!)

June 4, 2014

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When we asked our friend Tatiana Boncompagni whether her new novel, Social Death, had any “dirty-ish parts” to it (hey, two sex writers have to ask), she responded that there’s no “ish” about it. The novel is a mystery about the murder of a Manhattan socialite who dies with a scandalous secret — in other words, Gone Girl meets Gossip Girl. (Hello, beach read!) The story is narrated by Clyde, a veteran news producer who is called to the scene of the murder, only to discover that the victim was her best friend (oh, and the victim just happened to be heir to a fortune of billions, too).

We’re thrilled to present an excerpt of the novel today — and yes, of course, it’s one of the dirty bits. You’re welcome.

On my way back to the ballroom, I made a bad turn and ended up down a hall of small meeting rooms. I heard a voice, then a giggle, and being the nosy journalist that I was, couldn’t just forget about it and continue on my way like a normal person. Crouching low to the ground, I stuck my nose around the doorframe.

The overheads were out, but there was enough light coming from the windows for me to make out Sabine’s face and Alex’s profile. From my vantage point, I could see that he had her up on the table, his face buried in her neck, his hands working beneath her short skirt. Sabine’s dress fell off her shoulder, exposing a grapefruit-shaped breast. She whimpered with pleasure as his mouth found her nipple. The next thing I heard was his zipper.

I slipped back out, praying neither of them had seen me, wishing I hadn’t seen what I did as I stumbled back down the hall, passing the doors to the kitchen. A waiter burst through, carrying a tray of Champagne glasses. I sped up and pilfered two of them. Then I went into the bathroom and downed them both, one after the other, the bubbles tickling the back of my throat, tasting like heaven, warming my belly. I wanted more.

“OK, so what happened?”

Georgia and I were downstairs, waiting in line at the coat check. Husband No. 4 had left midway through the filet mignon, mumbling something about a conference call with Hong Kong, and Diskin and his wife had taken off immediately after the crème caramel. We were all free to go. “You look like a pig at a Memphis barbecue,” she said accusingly.

I threw my hands up. “What does that even mean?”

“It means, sugar pie, that your face is redder than the blood that used to come out of my hoo-ha every goddamn month and your breath smells like the peppermints they got in the ladies’.”

I’d grabbed a handful of them in the bathroom after downing the Champagne. Then I’d hit the bar, sucked down a vodka tonic and a glass of red abandoned on a table in the reception area.

“What the fuck just happened?” Georgia asked.

“Naomi Zell and I had a tête-à-tête. I’m off Olivia’s case, and I’m not allowed to get within ten feet of any of the Kravises. The network is hiding something. Or they’re afraid I’ll uncover something that will mess up the merger. Why else would she pull me off the case?”

Georgia took off her glasses. “You told her to stuff it, I hope.”

“But I thought you didn’t want me on this case either.”

“That ain’t the point.”

Phil draped Georgia’s chinchilla cape over her shoulders. The fur was overkill given the evening’s mild weather, but Georgia flaunted her furs whenever possible. “That it?” She gave me a knowing look.

I handed Phil the claim ticket for my black wool topper. “Would you mind?”

We watched him file back into the coat-check line. Georgia linked her arm in mine and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Fess up, child.”

Sometimes I loved that nothing got by her, other times, not so much. “If you must know, I caught Alex and Sabine going at it in one of the meeting rooms.”

Georgia planted a hand on her hip, her eyes two thin slits. “Christ in heaven, you are so much worse off than I thought.”

“She’s my assistant. I’m his producer. It’s normal for me to be weirded out.”

She clucked admonishingly. “You drinking tonight?”

“Everything OK?” Phil asked as he helped me into my coat.

I shot Georgia a pleading look.

“This girl is a workaholic. I’m always telling her she needs to get a life outside the office.”

“Point taken,” I said.

“Get her home safe,” Georgia said, giving Phil a meaningful look before leaving us to find her Escalade.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“I think she just really likes you,” I said lightly as Phil led me to his Town Car. In the backseat, I slid a little closer to him, pressing my back against Phil’s body. “Thanks for coming tonight. I owe you one.”

“No problem.” He gave my leg a fraternal pat in return. “Georgia’s a hoot.”

I reached for the inside of his thigh.

He pulled away. “I think you and I are in different places.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He took a breath, adjusting his glasses. “You’re beautiful, Clyde. And smart, and passionate about what you do, but I just don’t see this working out.”

I couldn’t believe he was rejecting me. I pictured Alex and Sabine, remembering the sound of his zipper and her moans. God, how I missed that kind of sex. Urgent. Dirty. Dangerous. I looked out the window, suddenly furious. We were at a red light and about to turn down Park Avenue.

“Look, if things change—”

“Don’t hold your breath.” My voice was jagged and sharp. I opened the car door and jumped out. Then I slammed the door behind me and ran for the curb.

I stood there, angry and horny, an old, familiar feeling stirring deep within me, a hungry recklessness that had been lying there blessedly dormant. There was only one place I could think of going. Crossing Park Avenue, I hailed a taxi. “I’m going uptown. But first, I need to find an open liquor store.”

Andrey opened the door to the Haverford. His jacket was off and shirtsleeves rolled up. I took his arm, tracing the scales of his tattoo.

He smiled. “Looks like someone’s been having fun.”

Not nearly enough. “I handed him the open bottle of vodka in my hand. Is there somewhere we can go?”

“Not here.”

I took the bottle back, pouting. “Fine. I’ll go then.”

He pulled me back into to him, his hands pressing my body into his so I could feel that he was already aroused. “It’s not that I don’t want you,” he said.

“Quickly then.”

He took a key from his pants and bolted the front door. In the elevator I felt his lips on mine, his hands all over my body. We reached the basement floor. He pulled me into the hall, unzipping my dress to my waist, liberating my breasts from the satin cups of my bra. A second key led us to a small, pitch-black room. It smelled of WD-40, dust, and men’s cologne. Andrey pushed me down on a couch and stood over me. I reached for his belt buckle, dropped his pants, taking his cock in my mouth. For the next few minutes, I was happy. This is what I’d come for, what I’d wanted. But when he bent back down, stripping off my wet panties, positioning himself to enter me, I pressed my hand firmly on his chest. “Aren’t you going to use a condom?”

“What?” His brow was slick with sweat, his breath loud in my ear.

“A condom,” I repeated, but the moment was already over. I couldn’t do this. Not here. Not like this. Not even drunk as I was. Andrey was involved in my best friend’s murder. Even for me, this was too far over the line. What the hell was I doing? I maneuvered out from under him, adjusting my dress. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“You sure?” he panted.

I nodded. “Maybe another time.”

He stood to buckle his pants. Then he walked a few paces in the murky darkness and flicked a switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light. I rubbed my eyes, which were struggling to adjust to the light, and realized that Andrey had taken me to the super’s office. There was a desk and a computer, a shelving system lined with toolboxes and toilet plungers, and at the back of the tiny chamber, where I was sitting, a silk-upholstered couch that had probably once belonged to one of the co-op tenants. It had seen better days.

Andrey couldn’t bring himself to look at me, and I got a flash of the man who looked so vulnerable in the coffee shop, talking about how Rachel had left him once Michael filed for divorce. “Take your time getting out of here,” Andrey said, gesturing to the small fridge under the super’s desk. “There’s water in there if you’re thirsty.”

“Thanks.”

“Just do me a favor and close the door to the office when you leave.” He pivoted on his heel, gave me an awkward salute, and was gone.

I’d had more humiliating moments in more unlikely places. And yet sitting there, half-drunk, half-exposed, my bare ass on a ratty old couch I wouldn’t want to touch with a gloved hand, I felt incredibly ashamed and disappointed in myself. I’d worked so hard for my sobriety. Damn it, Clyde.

Social Death by Tatiana Boncompagni is on sale now at Amazon.com

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New Erotica Book: Kresley Cole’s “The Professional”

May 9, 2014

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From #1 New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole comes The Professional, the first installment in her “Game Maker” series, an erotica collection that features the intense love stories, the family dynamics, the alpha heroes and adventurous women that Cole is known for, except apparently with even more naughtiness! Below is an excerpt from The Professional; here’s the set up: 

When grad student Natalie Porter encounters the sexiest man she’s ever seen, a Russian named Aleksandr Sevastyan, he spurns her determined advances in public—only to abduct her from her Lincoln, Nebraska home later that night (when she’s wearing nothing but a short bathrobe!). He tells her that she’s the heir of a Russian mafiya billionaire, she’s in danger, and that Sevastyan himself will be her new bodyguard. Oh, and that he’s flying her to the motherland—immediately. At a small hidden airstrip, Natalie has second thoughts and runs from her towering protector….

…………………………………….

From Chapter 3 of

The Professional

by Kresley Cole

 

Corn leaves slapped my face, raking my hair. My bare feet kicked up loose soil.

How much of a head start had I managed? Was he already crashing behind me?

“Stop this, Natalie!”

I gave a cry. My God, he was fast! I’d felt like prey before; now I literally was. This man was running me down, bent on capturing me! I dug deeper, sprinting even faster—

One second I was fleeing at full speed, the next I was flying. He’d lunged for me, snagging me around the waist. At the last instant, he twisted and took the impact on his back, crushing stalks beneath us.

“Damn you! Let go of me!” I struggled against him. Like fighting a steel vise.

Before I could blink, he’d flipped me to my back onto a mat of leaves.

“Get off me!” I battered his chest with the bottoms of my fists.

Huge and furious above me, he wedged his hips between my legs, snagging my wrists in one big hand. “Do not ever run from me again.” The moon shone down on him, highlighting the tight lines of his face. He seemed to be grappling with his fury, drawing on some inner iron control.

“Let me go!”

Over the familiar scents of rich soil, fragrant crops, and cold night, I detected his scent: aggression and raw masculinity. His shirt had gaped open, and I could see more of his skin, with the edge of another tattoo just visible past the material.

“Sevastyan, release me. Please.”

At that word, his grip on my wrists loosened a degree. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Only to protect you.” Behind that inscrutable mask, so much was going on, but I could read so little.

Under the moonlight, his prominent cheekbones shaded his lean cheeks. His collar-length black hair gleamed like a raven’s feather, the ends tripping across his jawline. Wavering almost hypnotically.

“You must remain with me,” he grated, his gaze on my lips, his brows drawn tight. He looked like he was struggling not to kiss me.

Kiss? What was happening here? Confusion began to drown out my panic; I had nothing to draw on as a reference for my predicament—because I’d never been in a situation like this.

A sexual situation I didn’t control.

I was embroiled in dangerous circumstances with a mysterious stranger, but I felt no fear. I felt … anticipation. And I suspected the lack of control was fueling it.

Was danger turning me on? The tension between us seemed to shift; as smoothly as a machine switching gears, my confusion morphed into hazy heat. I hadn’t known I had this in me! Who am I??

When my gaze dropped, I spied the shadowy bulge in his pants. He wasn’t indifferent to me! He might’ve disdained me in the bar, but he couldn’t disguise his erection straining to be freed.

At the sight of it, arousal muddled my thoughts like a fog rolling into my mind. I’d heard the expression stupid with lust. I was getting there.

“Sevastyan?” That feeling of connection surged within me. Desire, need, and something more. “What do you want from me?”

No answer. All I could hear was our breaths.

In this position, he could unzip his fly and be inside me in a heartbeat’s time, covering me on the ground. Like animals in the dirt.

Him. Inside me. Here.

The mere thought made my body vibrate with a need so strong, I suspected I might allow him to do anything he wanted to me. My staggering level of arousal began to unnerve me more than this entire situation. I had no control with him, needed to get away!

I shook my head hard. “You let me go now.” I squirmed in his grip, digging my bare heels into the ground to propel myself back. Managed maybe a foot. I was furious—at him, at my out-of-control body. Another heel-digging lunge back.

With his free hand, he gripped my waist and yanked me back against him, forcing my thighs wider. His gaze descended, his eyes going wide before narrowing intently.

I felt cold air between my legs, just as I saw that my robe had come open at the belted waist. Everything below was exposed. My pale skin glowed in the moonlight, the trimmed thatch of red curls stark in comparison.

I was too stunned to react, pinned by his gaze. His lids grew heavy, his nostrils flaring. His broad chest seemed to struggle for breath. I was naked from the waist down but had no way to cover myself. I twisted my arms to free my wrists—until I saw that look of his.

Dark, hungry, molten. Dangerous. As before, I felt like his captured prey, his to enjoy.

My fury dwindled. When my body decided to soften beneath his, he gave a curt nod, as if I’d pleased him, and his free hand landed on my bare hip. Skin to skin. He groaned at the contact; I shivered from the electric heat of his rough palm. Hadn’t I imagined those hands kneading me everywhere?

Shaking, I watched as he straightened his ringed thumb from my hip until it reached my mons. He brushed the tip of his finger along the edge of my curls. It was so slow and unexpected, so tender, I couldn’t bite back a moan.

He touched me as if with … reverence.

I no longer saw signs of that iron control; instead he looked lost.

Like I probably looked in that moment.

I murmured, “Sevastyan?” as my hips rolled. “What are you doing to me?” He’d somehow spellbound me, making me feel empty and desperate.

Still riveted to my sex, he grated words in Russian, something about how he couldn’t be expected to deny himself in the face of this.

How no one should expect him to.

“The Professional” is on sale now.



Moms Are Kinky People Too!

April 22, 2014

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Lelo’s Etherea Silk Cuffs

Mother’s Day is just around the corner! Sure, you could get her some nice flowers…again. Or you could get her something she’ll really enjoy: our new book, 150 SHADES OF PLAY: A Beginner’s Guide to Kink!

Hear us out: Moms loved the Twilight series, but secretly wished there was more sex in it. Along comes the Fifty Shades series, which is essentially Twilight fan faction, and there’s tons of sex….kinky sex. Moms across the country go gaga for it, so much so that it’s dubbed “mommy porn.” Then the movie version goes into production, and mom-fans everywhere count down the days until its release: Valentine’s Day, 2015.

There are just a few problems:

  • Fifty Shades doesn’t tell moms how to incorporate any of this stuff into their own lives
  • it doesn’t mention specific quality products or where to get them
  • it perpetuates myths about kink
  • it even promotes some very dubious (i.e. unsafe) behaviors and techniques
  • and a year is a long time to wait until the movie comes out!

A mom friend of ours recently wrote us, saying she’s been married for quite a while and needs some new ideas, asking which book of ours we would recommend. We told her 150 SHADES OF PLAY: while it does cover some intense kinky stuff, it also covers the basics; it’s not visually graphic; it has a great sense of humor, which makes it fun and non-intimidating to skim with a husband or partner; and it gives readers a vouyeristic look into how extreme some people can get with BDSM which might make them feel more comfortable and confident to try new, mildly kinky things. Because let’s face it: a little toy or light bondage is nothing compared to pony play!

So when making the mom in your life a Mother’s Day care package this coming May 11th, remember: flowers are nice, but floggers are nicer.



The Best of Gabriel Garcia Marquez on Love and Sex

April 18, 2014

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photo via Wiki Commons

Colombian novelist and Nobel laureate Gabriel García Márquez died yesterday at the very respectable — but still heartbreaking, to his fans everywhere — age of 87. He is irreplaceable as a writer. In addition to bringing magical realism to the masses, he practically invented a new language for talking about love and sex — especially in his classic novels Love In the Time of Cholera and One Hundred Years of Solitude. In the latter book, he wrote, “A person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.” His words, however, will live on forever. Here are some of our favorite things he wrote on love and sex.

From Love In the Time of Cholera

“It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.”

“The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after making love, and it must be rebuilt every morning before breakfast.”

“Think of love as a state of grace, not the means to anything, but the alpha and omega. An end in itself.”

“He recognized her despite the uproar, through his tears of unrepeatable sorrow at dying without her, and he looked at her for the last and final time with eyes more luminous, more grief-stricken, more grateful than she had ever seen them in half a century of a shared life, and he managed to say to her with his last breath: ‘Only God knows how much I loved you.’”

“The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.”

“The problem in public life is learning to overcome terror; the problem in married life is learning to overcome boredom.”

“Nothing in this world was more difficult than love.”

“Amputees suffer pains, cramps, itches in the leg that is no longer there. That is how she felt without him, feeling his presence where he no longer was.”

“She knew that he loved her above all else, more than anything in the world, but only for his own sake.”

“‘If we’re going to do it, let’s do it,’ she said, ‘but let’s do it like grownups.’”

“With her Florentino Ariza learned what he had already experienced many times without realizing it: that one can be in love with several people at the same time, feel the same sorrow with each, and not betray any of them. Alone in the midst of the crowd on the pier, he said to himself in a flash of anger: ‘My heart has more rooms than a whorehouse.’”

“Nobody deserves your tears, but whoever deserves them will not make you cry.”

“He had taught her that nothing one does in bed is immoral if it helps to perpetuate love. And something else that from that time on would be her reason for living: he convinced her that one comes into the world with a predetermined allowment of lays, and whoever does not use them for whatever reason, one’s own or someone else’s, willingly or unwillingly, loses them forever. It was to her credit that she took him at his word.”

“And yet that first experience, although cruel and short-lived, did not leave her bitter; rather, she had the overwhelming conviction that with or without marriage, or God, or the law, life was not worth living without a man in her bed. What Florentino Ariza liked best about her was that in order to reach the heights of glory, she had to suck on an infant’s pacifier while they made love.”

“Always remember that the most important thing in a good marriage is not happiness, but stability.”

“It was the first time she had made love in over twenty years, and she had been held back by her curiosity concerning how it would feel at her age after so long a respite. But he had not given her time to find out if her body loved him too. It had been hurried and sad, and she thought: Now we’ve screwed up everything.”

“When at last she recovered her self-possession in the perfumed oasis of her cabin, they made the tranquil, wholesome love of experienced grandparents, which she would keep as her best memory of that lunatic voyage. It was as if they had leapt over the arduous cavalry of conjugal life and gone straight to the heart of love.”

“She would defend herself, saying that love, no matter what else it might be, was a natural talent. She would say: You are either born knowing how, or you never know.”

“But when a woman decides to sleep with a man, there is no wall she will not scale, no fortress she will not destroy, no moral consideration she will not ignore at its very root: there is no God worth worrying about.”

From One Hundred Years of Solitude

“If I knew that today would be the last time I’d see you, I would hug you tight and pray the Lord be the keeper of your soul. If I knew that this would be the last time you pass through this door, I’d embrace you, kiss you, and call you back for one more. If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice, I’d take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I’d tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already.”

“There is always something left to love.”

“Gaston was not only a fierce lover, with endless wisdom and imagination, but he was also, perhaps, the first man in the history of the species who had made an emergency landing and had come close to killing himself and his sweetheart simply to make love in a field of violets.”

“It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.”

“They were so close to each other that they preferred death to separation.”

“He dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her. Petra Cotes, for her part, loved him more and more as she felt his love increasing, and that was how in the ripeness of autumn she began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love. Both looked back then on the wild revelry, the gaudy wealth, and the unbridled fornication as an annoyance and they lamented that it had cost them so much of their lives to find the paradise of shared solitude. Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, they enjoyed the miracle of living each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs.”

“And both of them remained floating in an empty universe where the only everyday and eternal reality was love.”

From Memories Of My Melancholy Whores

“Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love.”

“I became aware that the invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love.”

“No matter what, nobody can take away the dances you’ve already had.”

“Don’t let yourself die without knowing the wonder of fucking with love.”

 

From Of Love and Other Demons

“No medicine cures what happiness cannot.”

“Do not allow me to forget you.”

“This was when she asked him whether it was true that love conquered all, as the songs said. ‘It is true’, he replied, ‘but you would do well not to believe it.’”

 

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The 10 Types of Sex Dreams

April 17, 2014

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available on Amazon

Freud, Schmroid. If you’re looking for a good book on the interpretation of dreams, check out the one by our very own Lauri Loewenberg, dream interpreter extraordinaire! Dream On It: Unlock Your Dreams, Change Your Life (published by St. Martin’s Press) features hundreds of real dream interpretations and a comprehensive dream symbol dictionary to help you understand and make the most of your nocturnal visions, especially the sexy ones. There’s an entire chapter dedicated to sex dreams, which Lauri says are often “not about a physical union you want, but rather a psychological union you need!” There are 10 kinds of sex dreams; below are 5 of them; check out Dream On It for the other five archetypes (The Friend, The Same Gender, Oral Sex, Family Members, and Masturbation):

  1. The Mystery Lover – This is the most common of all sex dreams. Many of us wonder if this dream is actually a glimpse of our soul mate who might be out there somewhere waiting for us.  Alas, t’is not so.  But what is so is that the unknown, faceless man or woman that often appears in our dreams does indeed hold significance….Our dreams have a cool way of showing us the different parts of our personality in the form of a person so we can gain a deeper understanding of ourselves and what makes us tick. That being said, the mystery lover in your dreams is the embodiment, the personification of the qualities we tend to associate with that gender….Throughout life we struggle to incorporate the right balance of each [gender] into our personalities and behavior.  A man wants to be caring and understanding, yet he doesn’t want to be a sissy.  A woman wants to assert herself, yet she doesn’t want to be labeled the B word!  Our mystery lover dreams are guiding us towards that perfect balance of firm and gentle, bold and caring, yin and yang.
  2. Cheating — These dreams can be infuriating, worrisome and the cause of many a slap across the face first thing in the morning.  In fact, in a recent survey I conducted with over 5000 participants, the cheating dream came in as the #1 most common dream! As upsetting as these dreams can be, the good news is that they rarely indicate that your mate is getting his or her pleasures elsewhere.  They do suggest, however, that something rather than someone is taking the time and attention from your mate that you feel you deserve.
…[If] you are the one straying in your dreams you need to ask yourself what you may be doing that is taking your attention away from your mate.  The guilt you feel in the dream is a tell tale sign that, deep down, you are aware that this may not be sitting well with your significant other….Once you can pinpoint what it is your mate is “cheating on you” with, or what you may be guilty of giving too much time to, it’s time to compromise.  Offer to give up or cut back on something your mate isn’t a big fan of if he or she promises to cut back on the activity that is causing you to feel left out. If you both stick to the compromise, you’ll find that the dreams will stop.
  3. The Ex — Past lovers are very popular characters in our naughty dreams. Even though it may be light years since you were with this person, he or she STILL continues to appear in your dreams, bringing those old feelings back to the surface that leave you wondering if you still may be holding a flame.  

Most often, the ex we dream about the most is our first love.  Strangely enough, we continue to dream of our first loves, even if we’ve moved on into a happy marriage.  Don’t worry, it’s not that you want the ex back, it’s that you want what he or she represents back: excitement, bubbles, passion!  You are likely to get these dreams when you are in a dry spell or when your marriage or current relationship gets a little too routine and humdrum, as all relationships do from time to time.  Your dream is using your ex to remind you of the passion that is still alive inside of you.  These dreams are actually good for you and are alerting you to the fact that the passion department doesn’t want to become a thing of the past.
  4. The Co-Worker – This dream can make work a very uncomfortable place to be. Unless your co-worker causes your heart to skip a beat and your mind to wander into naughty, naughty land, then your sex dream(s) about him or her are nothing to cause you concern.  However, understanding the dream is well worth your while because odds are, that dream is actually trying to help you improve yourself at work.  Your dreaming mind may be telling you that you need to “come together” on some level with your co-worker, for the sake of work, that you need to have a meeting of the minds in order to make co-existing and co-working more efficient.  

But what if you don’t really have much to do with a particular co-worker during the day but you find yourself knocking boots at night?  All you need to do is ask yourself what stands out about that person.  Is he really good with computers?  Does the boss seem to favor her?   Maybe he’s easy going and doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.  There is very likely a quality he or she possesses that your dreaming mind feels you would do well to take on as your own.
  5. The Boss – Shagging your employer at night can sure make it difficult to come into work the next day.  If this is the case with you, remember, sex dreams are not necessarily about the person but rather about what he or she represents.  In the case of your boss it is most likely power, authority, management skills, decision making, et cetera that you need to merge into your own life.
 Do you need to take on the role of boss at home and better manage those unruly kids?  Are you facing a tough decision?  Do you need to fire or get rid of a certain element, person or behavior in your life?  Or perhaps you simply need to merge with your boss psychologically in order to deal with a client or project. Whatever the case may be, your boss dream is telling you that it’s time to take charge! Being decisive and authoritative would suit you well now.

For more on the 5 sex dreams above and to discover the meaning behind the other 5 most common sex dreams — The Friend, The Same Gender, Oral Sex, Family Members, and Masturbation – check out Lauri’s book Dream On It, available everywhere! Check out all of Lauri’s books here.



Erotica: Spying on Your Neighbors Is Hotter Than Porn

April 15, 2014

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The two of us often struggle with erotica. On the one hand, we think it’s an awesome resource (and by resource, we do of course mean wank material) for women who are easily squicked by porn –by  its cheesy dialogue, its fake boobs, and its even more fake orgasms. On the other hand, we are easily cheesed out by erotica. Also, while we want to inform our readers about new erotica collections — especially when they’re edited by fabulous sex writers like Violet Blue — we feel a little funny publishing material that people might wank to. That’s just not the kind of site we want EMandLO.com to be.

That all said, today we’re publishing an excerpt from a short story called “Reality TV” by Alyssa Turner. It’s part of the book Best Women’s Erotica 2014edited by, yes, Violet Blue.  We’ve convinced ourselves that this excerpt — about how spying on neighbors who “forget” to close the blinds or drapes can be a kind of interactive porn — is more of a tease, and that no one will actually wank to this story until they buy the book and make it all the way to the steamy end. Hey, two prudish sex writers can dream! In the meantime: You’re welcome.

“Reality TV” by Alyssa Turner

“Are you spending another evening in that window, Marcella?” Abby only sounds annoyed as she asks me the same rhetorical question I’ve heard every night this week. Her keys clank on the table next to the door, and I glance in her direction.

“Okay, so I’m nosy. Beats watching TV since they cut off the cable.”

“Maybe if you’d paid the bill instead of getting a new set of headshots…” she says, taking off her sneakers.

I pout. “You don’t mean that.”

And she relents. “No, chica. I don’t. You know I don’t.” Abby kisses me on the cheek. “So what’s playing tonight on NYC live, Amsterdam and One Hundred and Twenty-Third Street edition?”

“Checked out a girl doing Pilates over the bodega.”

“Big deal, I can see that working at the gym any time of the day.”

“Oh, but she was only wearing her panties.” I turn to her and smile.

Abby isn’t convinced. “Give me those,” she says with a devilish grin and snatches the binoculars out of my hands before I can protest. “Now let’s see here. It was the third window from the left, wasn’t it?”

“Wasn’t what?” I act clueless, but I won’t win any Academy Awards with my performance.

“Uh-huh, just like I thought.” She peers down at me from over the Nikons I scored for a bargain at a pawnshop in Times Square. “Same dude we caught stroking his dick in front of the TV three nights ago.”

I’m red, I know it. “Really, I didn’t see him.”

“Guilty little Marcella, can’t tell a lie for shit.” She’s laughing at me.

“Stop it.” I can’t help it. I’m giggling with her.

She takes another look at the nameless guy sitting naked on his couch with just one light on in the kitchen and the blue flick- ering glow of the television washing his taut body. “You’ve been watching him every night, haven’t you?”

“Maybe I have.” I shrug my shoulders.

Abby cocks her head to the side with an eyebrow raised and returns the binoculars to her eyes. “Where’s the zoom on these things?” I start to show her, but she waves me away. “Never mind, I got it.”

… [edited here for length and prurience!] …

“You want chocolate cake, I go to the bakery. You want a bubble bath, I run the water.” She rolls her tongue against mine in a single slow wave. “You have a taste for some cock?” Her voice is throaty. “I’ll see what we can do about that, too.”

“I love you.” All I want to do is show her how much. But Abby is scooting off to our bedroom.

“Stay there. I’ll be right back.” I hear her rustling in the night table. “Don’t you move.”

Sliding down my pants, I’m ready and waiting for her when she returns. Abby saunters back in peeling off her T-shirt and dropping it to the floor. In her other hand, a strap-on harness dangles between three fingers. “Hurry up and bend over before he finishes,” she says, and I do as I’m told. Looking through the binoculars, I’m pleased to see we’re not too late. “You keep watching him stroke his cock. and I’ll help you imagine what he feels like.”

“But you fuck like a girl.” I tease her with a wide grin and my eager booty wiggling in anticipation, waiting while she fastens my favorite dildo snug against her boy shorts.

“Oh, is that right?” Abby squares herself behind me and wraps her tawny fingers onto my hips. She takes a nice firm hold of my sandy brown ponytail and makes sure I know that she intends for me to eat my words. “Well, let’s see if you scream like one.”

Best Women’s Erotica 2014, edited by Violet Blue, is now on sale

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Losing It: How We Popped Our Cherry Over the Last 80 Years

April 11, 2014

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Author Kate Monro has managed to make us jealous of her job: searching the world for first-time tales that don’t often get told. In her new book, “Losing It: How We Popped Our Cherry Over the Past 80 Years,” she picks up where Nancy Friday left off, letting a wide range of people — from a 90-year-old woman with “one foot in the grave and the other on a banana skin” (her own words!) to a disabled punk rocker who moves near a lesbian hippie camp in Wales in the 1970′s — tell their stories of how they lost their virginity, smartly bookending each with historical and cultural context. It’s a fascinating book that shows, to put it one way, just how far we’ve come.

Below is an excerpt from the story of a man who’s been married for ten years with two kids. He’d been the one to take his wife’s V-card fourteen years earlier. Then it was her turn to take his:

Boys Don’t Cry

from “Losing It” by Kate Monro

I expected men to hold back, to be economical with the truth. I assumed they would be reticent and reluctant to talk to a woman about one of the most revealing moments in their sexual history.

Reader, they sang like canaries.

Not only that, but they did it with extraordinary honesty. I was about to receive a story that could not have illustrated this point any better if it tried:

[T]wo years ago, while we were in bed, [my wife, Georgina] first brought up the idea of anal. I was, to put it mildly, petrified. Visions of ’being gay’ ran through my head. She assured me I wasn’t but I tried to let the topic die. She wouldn’t. She brought it up again and eventually we made a date to go to a sex-toy store, just to look.

We went, we looked, and I was astounded as to how many toys and videos there were about woman-on-man anal. We both laughed and I found myself going along with things, retreating from a ‘no way’ attitude to one in which I was saying, ‘but that’s way too big’. Eventually we settled for a harness with a dildo on the small side. The salesman nonchalantly rang up the sale.

That night I was about as nervous as I’d ever been. We took our clothes off and kissed. There was no turning back. She looked at me. ‘Ready?’ I went over to the bed and lay down. She went over to a closet and finally reappeared, fully harnessed. I must have gasped. The sight of that missile protruding from her, and meant for me, brought everything home. This was real. I was about to get fucked.

[If you want the dirty details, you'll have to buy the book! Keep reading for the aftermath...]

It was a mind-blowing orgasm, the likes of which I’d never experienced before. I was joyful and ashamed at the same time. What an odd sensation. It was so impersonal. It was as though my private parts were just there to be used by her. She lay atop me, eyes half glazed, staring into space or at the wall or something, but not at me….We said nothing for a while, just holding each other tightly.

The physical act had been one thing, and a weird one at that. But the psychological effects were just beginning to waft in. I’d just come about as close as I ever will to experiencing what Georgina had experienced the first time I had screwed her. This was not like my first experience all those years ago, from which I took away feelings of power and exhilaration. On the contrary, this mostly involved powerlessness – being pursued, penetrated and under the control of another person.

All my life I had been the penetrator and even when the woman was aggressive, there was no doubt as to who was doing what to whom. But now, as the one being penetrated, I was on the other side. She’d gotten me to give it up. She’d probed, thrusted and done any manner of other things, all of her own urging and without regard to what I wanted. She had been cool, under control, self-assured, while I’d been emotional, afraid and out of control. And yet, I’d experienced great orgasms, real rock ’em, sock ’em ones. My mind had reeled at the experience; my body had enjoyed almost every second of it. Even the pain (and there was pain) was rewarded in the end by pleasure.

I told her all these things. She hugged me all the harder and explained how it had been great for her. She told me how she loved being in charge for a change and how great it felt to be able to control me, as opposed to usually being under my control. She said that what really surprised her was how protective she became of me when she realised that I was now vulnerable to her. (Yeah, I thought sarcastically, you really acted protectively.) She said that she felt like she’d conquered me but at the same time wanted to make sure that I was OK.

She also said, mimicking a cornerstone on which patriarchy is based, that she felt surprised at how easily I’d let her do what she was doing and in a way lost some respect for me. I nodded. I was surprised by that too and a little angry that that was how she felt. After all, I’d just done what she wanted me to.

“Losing It” is available now on Amazon.com



Top 6 Worst Kind of Kisses

April 8, 2014

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photo via Flickr

Violet Blue is one of the most prolific sex writers we know — we’ve literally lost count of how many books she’s written — and yet she’s not the slightest bit annoying, so we can’t hate her for this. The latest in her grand oeuvre — we’re pretty sure she’s going to tip the scales into a full-on genre soon — is called Kissing: A Field Guide. It will tell you everything you need to know about smooshing face, from timing to style to tension and technique.

In this excerpt, Violet details the six most hazardous kinds of kisses you might encounter in the field:

1. The Fish Tank Kiss:
Every girl’s nightmare. He’s totally cute, funny, the conversation is good—but then you kiss and it feels like he’s trying to clean the inside of your mouth as if it was a fish tank. As the minutes pass more slowly than you ever thought possible, you wonder if he’s actually looking for treasure. His tongue is too hard, and it darts about quickly and all pokey. You are usually too stunned to decide whether you should wait it out or hold up a “send help” sign. Toss this one back into the sea.

2. The Chewing Gum Kiss
You’ve seen these before—a couple joined at the mouth, lips locked in a deep French-kissing session that looks like they’re about to gnaw each other’s head off. Don’t worry, everyone will be fine, but this combination of French Kiss and Fish Tank Kiss with extreme jaw movement looks pretty scary if you watch too many horror movies.

3. The Limp Noodle
So sad, the Noodle. When you lock lips and start to French, and his lips just hang there and his tongue lies there like a slug, you have a Limp Noodle on your hands. No matter how much you push, massage, and prod his tongue to bring it back to life, it plays possum, dead in the middle of the road. There is nothing you can do—you’re basically giving mouth-to-mouth to this guy.

4. Mercy Kisses
Sometimes you kiss for fun, and sometimes you just have to give a kiss out of pity—hence the Mercy Kiss. You give these kisses when you feel bad about something, want your date to look good (even though you aren’t into him), or just feel sorry for the poor sap. Only in the movies do these kisses turn into a blazing romance. If you end up on the receiving end of a Mercy Kiss, just enjoy it and then excuse yourself to go wash your cat.

5. The Zombie Kiss
Another nightmare kiss many of us have experienced, which seems to come from beyond the grave. It’s as if all the life drains out of him as he comes in for a kiss: the eyes flutter, clamp shut, or roll back into his head. His face goes slack and lifeless. And the most horrifying part of all: his mouth opens up into a gaping maw, threatening to swallow you whole. Sometimes the Zombie Kisser comes at you like a lost extra from Night of the Living Dead, mouth agape, with a shiny pink sluglike tongue pointing out at you. Scream! Run! Barricade the doors and windows!

6. The Zoolander Kiss
Ever wonder what it would be like to kiss an international male model? The Zoolander makes you feel like you’re a pretty prop designed to make him look good as he poses, shifts, and gives his “sexy” face to the world while kissing you. Would he notice if you were gone? Probably not. The Zoolander Kiss is meant purely to compliment the physical beauty of the man kissing you—it’s not for anyone’s actual physical pleasure. It’s used when trying to impress others or to make someone jealous.

Violet Blue, author of Kissing: A Field Guide

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A Love Poem for National Poetry Month

April 3, 2014

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photo via Flickr

APRIL IS National Poetry Month. So to have your new book of poems be named one of the Books of the Week by Publishers Weekly this week has got to feel doubly good. Thus, a big congrats to our friend Mark Bibbins, whose new book is called “They Don’t Kill You Because They’re Hungry, They Kill You Because They’re Full.” A few weeks ago we featured his “Poem that Wants to Use Revelation 3:16 as an Epigraph.” Below is another great one from his new book. Enjoy!

 

By the Number 3

Can we back up and read
that sign again, the one

trying to tell us about a band
playing on a beach lined

with pine trees, very old.
If the internet doesn’t work

there you have to build
your own. Let’s rewrite

the constellations
so they read as all kinds

of fruits: here we see
the Grape Cluster reclining

just above the indigo treetops;
Can of Lychees keeps tampering

with my weekly horoscope
but I don’t know how.

Thus magic shuffles reluctantly
toward us and if you claim

you can organize it you should
be making a joke. Look

at a 3 the wrong way
and all you see is your own

wretchedness. If you look at 3
in a different way you might

see a fortunate mouth getting
ready to kiss. You used to

feel like you were always
going to the same place

but it didn’t hurt and other
times the ocean glowed

so blue it broke
half your bones.

 

Mark Bibbins’ “They Don’t Kill You Because They’re Hungry, They Kill You Because They’re Full” is available on Amazon.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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