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Excerpt: Revenge, Secrets, and Whiskey in “Deceptive Innocence”

March 13, 2014

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Kyra Davis, New York Times bestselling author of Just One Night, is keeping things steamy with Deceptive Innocence, the story of Bell, a beautiful young woman out for revenge who falls in love with the one man whose secrets are as dangerous as her own. Here’s a taste of the new story (we totally fell for the last line!):

 

Deceptive Innocence by Kyra Davis

From Chapter 1

 

My heart’s beating a little too fast and my eyes keep darting toward the door. He’ll walk through there any moment now. There are only a handful of bar-

flies to distract me, and the kinds of drinks they order don’t take a lot of thought to make. This is not a Mojito Sparkler type of crowd.

Most of the people who come to drink at Ivan’s are men. They come to lose themselves in alcohol and sports. The few women who show up are looking for a special kind of trouble. This isn’t the place you come to in hopes of picking up a nice guy.

I know these women. Maybe not personally, but essentially I know who they are and what they’re about: disheartened or damaged, looking for men who can inflict enough pain to help them forget the pain that’s coming from within. Screwing assholes, making themselves vulnerable to emotional predators—it’s just another form of cutting, really. Every time they smile at a Hells Angels type I can see the unspoken words hovering over their heads.

Here’s the knife. Hurt me so I don’t have to hurt myself. Take away the responsibility and just give me the pain.

I get it, I really do. But it’s not my game, not anymore.

So I just pour the beer, keep the whiskey flowing, keep my smile evasive, cold enough to scare away the more aggressive ones, warm enough to coax the tips out of the passive . . . and keep my eyes on the door.

And then it happens. At exactly seven fifteen, he shows up.

I feel an acute pang in my chest, right where my heart is.

Lander Gable. How many times have I seen this man walk into this bar while I was sitting across the street in a cab or rental car? But now, today, I’m in the bar, and he’s walking toward me, not away. I’ve never been so close to him before. I can almost touch him!

And soon I will.

The ringing of the phone momentarily distracts me.

I pick up and ask, “Ivan’s, can I help you?” The person on the other end mumbles an embarrassed apology for calling the wrong number and hangs up, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear long after hearing the click, pretending to listen while I study the perfect specimen in front of me: a clean-shaven face, bronze skin, a watch that’s worth more than everything I own . . . Only he’s replaced the suit he wore to the office today with a pair of Diesel jeans and a sweater. Less conspicuous, but still a little too clean for this place. His physique hints at time spent at a gym, not a dockyard.

You’d think some of the other guys would kick his ass just for entering their bar.

And yet absolutely no one gets in his way.

It’s not until he’s almost at the bar stool that we make eye contact. He doesn’t smile, but there’s something there—curiosity maybe, perhaps surprise at finding a woman bartending, definitely appraisal.

I’ve gotta give myself a major pat on the back for that one. I must have spent two hours putting myself together today for him. He’s why I’m wearing my wild black hair down, letting it cover my bare shoulders. He’s why I matched the loose, low-slung jeans with a fitted tank that subtly reveals the benefits of my new push-up bra. He’s why I’m wearing thick mascara and sheer lip gloss. I know this guy’s tastes.

He takes his seat, pulls out a ten, and gestures to the bottle of whiskey still in my hand from the last drink I poured. “On the rocks, please.”

“You sure?” I ask even as I fill a glass with ice. “I could make a whiskey sour if you like. Maybe throw in a cherry?”

He raises his eyebrow slightly. “Mocking a patron when you’re new to the job? Risky, isn’t it?”

“How do you know I just started?”

“I’m here a lot.”

“Every day?”

“A few times a week.” He reaches for his drink, brings it to his lips. Over the glass he offers a bemused smile. “I like your prices.”

“Really?” I ask. “Drinks more expensive where you’re from?”

“You make it sound like I’m visiting from some far- off land.”

“Are you?”

His light-brown hair looks darker in this room, his eyes brighter. “Upper East Side,” he says.

“Ahhh.” I take a step back and cross my arms over my chest. “That’s about a million dollars from here.”

He winces. “Not necessarily.” On the other side of the bar a few men burst into cheers as a UFC fighter’s arm is broken on live TV.

“You living at the 92nd Street Y, then?” I quip.

“No,” he answers, his smile returning. “I’ve managed to avoid that fate.” He studies me for a moment, trying to gauge what he’s dealing with. “How ’bout you? You live here in Harlem?”

“Occasionally. I’m a bit of a drifter.” I fiddle with a glass, playing at cleaning it. “So why do you really come here . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

He gives me a quizzical look. “Considering how coy you’re being about what part of town you live in, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t volunteer my name just yet. That way we both have an air of mystery.”

“Oh, I’m only coy about inconsequential things.” I lean forward, put my elbows on the bar, and cradle my chin in my hands. Ever so slightly I arch my back. “I’m very straightforward about the things I want.”

“Really?” He takes another sip. “And what exactly is it that you want?”

“Tonight?” I pause for a moment, pretending to think. “Tonight I want . . . your name.”

His smile spreads to a grin. “You think you can coax it out of me?”

“Maybe.” Out of the corner of my eye I spot one of the regulars on the other side of the bar waving his empty glass in the air. “When I have the time.”

And I walk away to pour the next drink.

The foreman needing the refill is too drunk to notice that I’m trembling while taking his money.

God, is this working? Am I being too forward? Too much of a tease? My mother would have chewed me out for behaving like this.

But when I look back, Lander’s still smiling. I exhale in relief. I have to have confidence. I’ve studied this man; some would even call it stalking, although I’m not sure I see the distinction. But the point is, I know what kind of man Lander is. He’s different. Edgy in that upscale kind of way, and he’s rebellious enough to drink in this dive when he could easily afford to knock back cocktails at The Carlyle.

When I return to him I refill his drink without his having to ask. “So I was thinking about this, and before I resort to coaxing, I think I’d like to take a stab at guessing.”

“I don’t have the kind of name that’s easy to guess,” he says.

“So it’s not Rumpelstiltskin?”

He laughs and shakes his head. His laugh is deeper than I anticipated, appealingly unrestrained. “I’ll give you a hint,” he finally says. “It’s English and it means ‘lion.’”

“Leo.”

“Close. It also means ‘landowner.’”

Another well-weathered drinker several feet off has started muttering to himself, adding an odd soundtrack to the scene. He’s minutes away from falling off his stool.

“Landlord,” I say. “Wait, is that a name? How about Leolord, or Lionlord, or maybe Landlion.”

“My name is Lander,” he supplies.

“Lander, the landowning lion.”

He nods in confirmation. “And what’s your name?”

“Bell.”

“You were named for your beauty.”

I shake my head, a little harder than necessary. “It’s a nickname. B. E. L. L. No ‘e’ at the end. Like Taco Bell.”

“Like Taco Bell?” he repeats. “Did you just say that?”

“What should I have said? A church bell?”

“No.” He takes his drink and downs more than half of it in a gulp. “But maybe like an alarm bell.”

I giggle at that and shake my head in protest, though I’m secretly flattered.

“Care to tell me your real name?” he asks.

“Guess,” I call over my shoulder as I leave to serve another customer. I can feel him watching me and I work to make sure my movements are graceful, too graceful for this place. That’s what he should think. I want him to be curious about me.

I need him to want me.

“Keep ’em on their toes,” my mother used to say. “If they don’t know what’s coming next, they’ll keep coming back in hopes of figuring it out.”

I remember that conversation so well, although at the time I pretended not to listen. I had found it distasteful to be advised on men and dating through bulletproof glass.

Looking back on it, I really hope she knew I was listening.

More customers come in: a chick dressed like a prostitute clinging to a guy dressed like a deadbeat, then a dark-skinned man with a scar, and, a few minutes later, a light-skinned guy with a grizzled beard and a bald head. They all glance in Lander’s direction but none of them bother him. It’s like he’s mingling when he shows up here. He doesn’t belong. He’s no better than those tourists on the double-decker buses, gaping at the sights of the city without ever understanding the first thing about the lives of the people who live in it. Does he know that?

The unspoken question helps me. It sharpens my focus and fortifies me for the next step. When I go back I look him in the eye and silently invite him to restart the conversation.

“Bella,” he says, his eyes moving from my hair, to my eyes, to the antique garnet ring I wear on my right hand.

“That would be too easy,” I say.

“Belinda.”

“Nope.”

“Blair.”

“Now you’re just pulling names out of your ass.”

He almost spits out his drink as he holds back an ill-timed laugh. When he composes himself, he opens his mouth again to continue but I gently press my finger against his lips. The move is startlingly intimate and he immediately falls silent.

“That’s three strikes,” I say as I pull my hand back. “Looks like you’re not getting to first base tonight.”

He cocks his head. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“That depends on how you perform next time you’re up to bat.”

And again I walk away. I serve the other drinkers, and occasionally I throw him a smile or two, but I don’t go back to talk. Not yet. I have to tease this out.

It’s only when he prepares to leave that I grab his hand. “Do come back another time,” I say, my eyes locked on his. Then, slowly, I remove my hand and bite my lower lip teasingly before adding, “For our prices.”

He answers me with a smile, puts down a ridiculously large tip, and leaves.

 

He’s back the very next night.

He arrives earlier this time, takes the same seat, and waits for me to approach. I hold up the whiskey and raise my eyebrows questioningly, waiting for his nod before pouring him a glass.

He throws out a pile of names: Beliva, Bellanca, Benita. The names are foreign to me, unfamiliar, irritating. But I keep my tone teasing and light as I reject them one by one.

The traffic in the bar is also light tonight, but a few distractions manage to pop up. The drunk from the night before is here, the one who almost fell off his stool. This time he’s sitting at a table, with a troubled expression that indicates he’s watching “his” bartender flirt with “the stranger.”

It takes effort, but he manages to get out of his chair and make his way back to the bar. When he puts his empty glass in front of me, he hits the wood of the bar a little too hard so that the placement reads more like a demand than a casual movement. “Empty,” he says, staring at the bottom. On the screen behind me “The Most Interesting Man in the World” opens a Dos Equis as this man before me fishes out six crumpled dollar bills and puts them next to the glass.

I shake my head. “I can’t serve you; you’ve had too much.”

The man shakes his head in return. “I had too much twenty years ago, but the Lord keeps piling shit on.”

“I meant I can’t give you more to drink,” I clarify. “Go home.”

The drunk’s head snaps up at the word home, as if I’ve spoken of some kind of coveted prize, as if I’ve spoken the real name of God. In that moment I know his whole story; the perfunctory telling of it is almost unnecessary. Newly evicted, no family, nothing. The man has no center. I shake my head, whisper useless words of comfort. I recognize his pain, I’ve lived with it before, but I can’t help. I can’t give him a home, or a family. I can’t even give him the final drink that might make him forget.

“You have to go,” I say as gently as I can. “There’s a shelter a few miles from here. Perhaps they can—”

But before I can finish my sentence, Lander slams his hand on the bar, and when he lifts it there’s two hundred dollars there. “For a Best Western,” he says, his voice cool and steady, as if he’s ordering a drink, not a bed. “Find one with a free breakfast.”

The man gapes at the bills before snatching them up and weaving his way out of the bar.

I stare at Lander, who is now occupying himself with his phone. “He won’t get a hotel room,” I finally say.

“He might,” Lander counters. “Not a Best Western, not a hotel that will buy him a moment of human dignity. But he might find a bed, a room, someplace where he can drink the liquor he’s about to buy in private.”

I shake my head, still not getting it.

“I feel sorry for him,” Lander clarifies.

“Because he doesn’t have a family?”

“Because he’s chosen despair over anger,” he says distractedly as he checks his emails. “It’s a bad choice. Despair will kill you. Anger’s more useful.”

I drop my gaze, toy with my garnet ring. Lander’s singing my song . . . my anthem. Again I feel my pulse quicken, just like it did right before our meeting, before I began my game.

I lean into the counter, my hands spread out to either side as if I’m balancing myself. “Are you angry, Lander?”

He looks up from his phone, his expression almost seductive, almost menacing. “Not as angry as you, Bell.”

Immediately I step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m—”

“I can hear anger scraping at the underside of every cheery word that comes out of your mouth,” he interrupts. “You’re absolutely draped in anger. And you know what?” He puts a few bills down, more than enough to cover the drink he consumed. “You wear it well.”

My heart pounds in my ears as once again he leaves.

What if he knows? 

Dear God, what if he knows I want to destroy him?

 

Read more of Deceptive Innocence here

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A Brief History of Love, from the New Book “Love Sense”

March 7, 2014

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The new book Love Sense by clinical psychologist Dr. Sue Johnson tries to take some of the mystery out of that big emotion. While that may not sound very romantic, Johnson is dedicated to the scientific exploration of love so that we may have better, more-fulfilling, more intimate long-term relationships — especially in a world where independence, isolation and non-monogamy are growing more common. Her book offers real-life examples and practical exercises, based on the Emotionally Focused Therapy she developed in her own practice. Below is an excerpt from the first chapter, which outlines a brief history of love and why it still matters in the 21st century.

 

Love Sense” by Dr. Sue Johnson

from Chapter 1

My memories are full of the sounds and sights of love: The ache in my elderly grandmother’s voice when she spoke of her husband, gone nearly fifty years. A railway signalman, he had courted her, a ladies’ maid, for seven years on the one Sunday she had off each month. He died of pneumonia on Christmas Day after eighteen years of marriage, when he was forty-five and she just forty.

My small enraged mother flying across the kitchen floor at my father, a former naval engineer in World War II, who stood large and strong in the doorway, drinking her in with his eyes, and she, seeing me, stopping suddenly and fleeing from the room. She left him after three decades of slammed doors and raised fists when I was ten. “Why do they fight all the time?” I asked my granny. “Because they love each other, sweetie,” she said. “And watching them, it’s clear that none of us knows what the hell that means.” I remember thinking, “Well, I won’t do this love thing, then.” But I did.

Telling my first great love, “I refuse to play this ridiculous game. It’s like falling off a cliff.” Weeping just months into a marriage, asking myself, “Why do I no longer love this man? I can’t even pinpoint what is missing.” Another man smiling quietly at me, and I, just as quietly, leaning back and letting myself plunge into the abyss. There was nothing missing.

Sitting, years later, watching the last of the ice finally melting on our lake one morning in early April and hearing my husband and children walking through the woods behind me. They were laughing and talking, and I touched for a moment the deepest joy, the kind of joy that was, and still is, entirely enough to fill up my heart for this lifetime.

Anguish and drama, elation and satisfaction. About what? For what?

***

Love can begin in a thousand ways—with a glance, a stare, a whisper or smile, a compliment, or an insult. It continues with caresses and kisses, or maybe frowns and fights. It ends with silence and sadness, frustration and rage, tears, and even, sometimes, joy and laughter. It can last just hours or days, or endure through years and beyond death. It is something we look for, or it finds us. It can be our salvation or our ruin. Its presence exalts us, and its loss or absence desolates us.

We hunger for love, yearn for it, are impelled to it, but we haven’t truly understood it. We have given it a name, acknowledged its force, cataloged its splendors and sorrows. But still we are confronted with so many puzzles: What does it mean to love, to have a loving relationship? Why do we pursue love? What makes love stop? What makes it persist? Does love make any sense at all?

Read the rest of this entry »



The Best (Most Affordable) Valentine’s Day Present You Can Give

January 31, 2014

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Here are the top 10 reasons why our award-winning book 150 Shades of Play: A Beginner’s Guide to Kink makes the best Valentine’s Day present:

  1. It gives you the great excuse to try something new in the bedroom — perfect for longterm couples on Valentine’s Day.
  2. It also has staying power. The perspectives it can give you on kinky sex can inspire your sex lives for years to come. It’s the gift that keeps on giving!
  3. It’s a great time killer while Fifty Shades of Grey fans wait for the movie version to come out next year. The book helps put such a huge cultural phenomenon into perspective, in a way that’s fun and flirty (and actually well written).
  4. It helps round out a nice gift basket of treats for Valentine’s Day: chocolates for your sweetie’s sweet tooth, roses for romance, and 150 Shades of Play for playtime! (Way better than some ill-fitting lingerie they’ll never wear.)
  5. Even if your partner doesn’t love it, you can pass it off as a gag gift that makes a great bathroom book. Just turn to the entry on  pony-play!
  6. The lighthearted tone of 150 Shades of Play takes some of the pressure off of you two to perform (unlike the gift of, say, a strap-on dildo).
  7. It’s a great way to give your partner hints about what you’d like to try…just happen to leave a bookmark or post-it next to a section that catches your interest, then leave the book on their pillow/night-stand. Or just get the book for yourself, read up on some tips and techniques before Valentine’s Day, and then wow your luvva with your amazing new moves!
  8. Not only can it improve your sex life, it can improve your social life! You can enliven future cocktail parties with some of the trivia you’ll learn from 150 Shades of PlayDid you know that we get the term “masochist” from Leopold Ritter von Sacher-Masoch, the author of the 1870 novel Venus in Furs? Both he and his main character got off on being degraded by dominant women wearing fur. And that’s one to grow on!
  9. Not only is it affordable, IT’S ON SALE FOR LESS THAN $10!  You get so much — 230 pages of well-researched history, fascinating cultural information, good sexual advice, precise technical instruction, cool illustrations, and side-splitting humor (basically everything that wasn’t in Fifty Shades) — for so little: dollars less, in fact, than what 8 measly pieces of Godiva chocolates costs!
  10. Not only will you be giving your partner/friend/friend-with-benefits a great gift, you’ll be giving us a gift too: By buying our book, you will literally help keep this site up and running. So won’t you please be our Valentine?

150 Shades of Play is available on Amazon.com
Visit 150ShadesOfPlay.com for more information about our book, including excerpts and praise from actual celebrities.



Book Excerpt: Bedded Bliss – A Couple’s Guide to Lust Ever After

January 9, 2014

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Bedded Bliss: A Couple’s Guide to Lust Ever After does something novel: it intersperses marital advice for keeping long-term monogamy hot with a collection of erotica. Author Kristina Wright — the editor of a over dozen Cleis Press anthologies, including Fairy Tale Lust, Dream Lover, Lustfully Ever After, Duty and Desire and the Best Erotic Romance series — begins each chapter of Bedded Bliss with an essay on a particular sexual-marital topic (e.g. lust after parenthood, exploring boundaries, growing old together, etc.); she ends each essay with three sensual calls-to-action; and Wright concludes each chapter with a few erotic short stories (some by her, most by other erotica authors) that are related to the chapter’s theme. (Erotica is a very personal thing, but there’s enough variety in the stories that almost everyone is sure to find something they like.) Through positivity and encouragement, the book tries to help readers become members of that invisible species in our culture: the sexually satisfied married couple. Below are a few excerpts from the essay sections:

On Baggage:

If you had different attitudes about what was enough (and the right kind of) sex before you got married, those differences are still there. If you had body image issues or difficulties communicating or insecurities about your sexual performance—they’re still there. It’s all still there for both of you and you both will, at some point, have to confront it, deal with it, and move beyond it. Because that’s what a marriage is all about—working together and moving forward together. And a good lifelong sex life with your partner is one of those things that is absolutely worth working on and fighting for at every stage of your marriage, even while you’re still on a honeymoon high and looking blissfully toward the future.

On Sex’s Inevitable Priority Slip:

There are dark days in every marriage, highs and lows in every stage of commitment. The divorce statistics tell us that a lot of couples decide to go their separate ways rather than hold on through the tough times. Most marriages that end go out with a whimper instead of a bang—no pun intended. It’s rarely one big cataclysmic event that ends the relationship; rather, it’s the distance that occurs over months or years that serves to drive a bigger and bigger wedge between couples. Job stress, health issues, the demands of parenting and family obligations—we all get wrapped up in the day-to-day struggles and forget about our partners. Sex slips farther and farther down the priority list, behind getting the dryer fixed and polishing the resume in case the economy dips even further and taking the twins to ballet class, until sex—and the marriage itself—is dead last on an impossibly long to do list for both people.

On Fantasies:

Sharing your sexual fantasies isn’t about being someone else—it’s about being the person you want to be with the person you love most. Being your truest self. This kind of sharing is about honesty that you may not have experienced since you were dating…But our interest and needs, including our sexual interests and needs, are not static, they change throughout our lifetime. And the person you should be opening up to about your interests and needs (in bed and otherwise) is the one you share every other aspect of your life with. The one who is going to be there through better or worse, in richer and poorer, in sickness and in health—and through rug burns and misplaced sex toys, too.

On Marital Dating:

You thought you got to stop dating because you got married, right? Nope. No one likes the idea of scheduling sex, but date nights are lifesavers for a relationship whether sex is the end result or not. You need the occasional dinner or movie or walk in the park alone with your spouse with your attention, your touch and your gaze focused completely on each other.

On Getting Kinky:

You know what I’m going to say here. The kinkiest thing any couple can do together is communicate their needs to each other. You don’t expect your partner to know what you want for dinner every night—why would you expect him to know you want to try bondage tonight? In truth, I think most people realize they need to tell their significant others if they want to experiment outside their sexual comfort zone and that’s exactly why they don’t—it’s outside their comfort zone.

On “Keeping in Touch”:

Remember when you couldn’t keep your hands off each other? Living together may take the edge off the need for the constant touch you experienced in the early years, but touch is still important.

1. Hold hands even if it isn’t something you usually do. Always kiss each other good-bye, even if you’re just running to the store. Curl up on the couch together when you watch a movie.

2. Enroll in a couple’s massage class and rediscover each other in a new, therapeutic way. You can take what you’ve learned and explore the benefits of erotic massage in the bedroom.

3. Shower together whenever you can. It doesn’t have to be about having sex (although there’s nothing wrong with that!); it’s about staying connected. Plus, getting clean now can lead to getting dirty later!

Bedded Bliss is available now on Amazon.com.



Last Chance for Great Last-Minute Gift: 150 SHADES OF PLAY!

December 19, 2013

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This is your last chance to give the MOST
entertaining/romantic/kinky/informative/funny/sexy/outrageous
holiday gift of the year! Our how-to companion piece to Fifty Shades of Grey titled 150 SHADES OF PLAY: A Beginner’s Guide to Kink is ON SALE THIS MONTH ONLY19 FOR LESS THAN $10! Here are the remaining deadlines you have to beat to get your copies by Xmas:

For more information about our new baby, 150 SHADES OF PLAY, visit its dedicated website: 150ShadesOfPlay.com.



Porn & Romance: An Odd Couple?

December 18, 2013

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The following is a sub-chapter about “the age of hypersexualization” from the new book “THE NEW SOFT WAR ON WOMEN: How the Myth of Female Ascendance Is Hurting Women, Men — and Our Economy” by Caryl Rivers and Rosalind C. Barnett, Ph.D. It’s the perfect holiday gift for anyone who says we live in a post-feminist world or that “the end of men” is upon us!

Porn & Romance:

An Odd Couple?

Some future media historian may refer to the present era as the “age of hypersexuality.” Never before have there been so many images of women in sexual poses that are demeaning, violent and subservient.

A continuing extreme sexualization of women and girls dominates the media and the culture. As cultural critic Gail Dines notes, “Something has shifted so profoundly in our society that the idealized pop culture image of women in today’s pornified world is no longer a Stepford Wife but rather a plasticized, scripted, hyper-sexualized, surgically enhanced young woman. The media world we live in today has replaced the stereotyped Stepford Wife with the equally limiting and controlling stereotype of a Stepford Slut.”34 

In October 2010, fraternity pledges at Yale chanted as they marched across campus. This is what they shouted:

My name is Jack,
I’m a necrophiliac.
I fuck dead women,
and fill them with my semen.
No means yes,
Yes means anal.
[Repeated]
Fuck al-Qaeda
Fuck al-Qaeda
[Repeated]
Fucking sluts
Fucking sluts
[Repeated]
USA
USA35

The oversexualization of young women is taking a major toll, leading to severe mental and physical health problems. Some of these include risky sexual behavior and high rates of eating disorders, depression and low self-esteem. In a 2007 major report on girls, the American Psychological Association found the media emphasizing young women’s sexuality “to a stunning degree.”36 A University of Buffalo study found that females are eleven times more likely to be sexualized in the popular media than males are.37

At the same time, the romance genre is booming; Read the rest of this entry »



The 12 Days of Kinkmas

December 17, 2013

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In honor of the special holiday sale price of our book, 150 SHADES OF PLAY: A Beginner’s Guide to Kink (now under ten bucks for the first time ever!), we’re presenting own special sexy sacrilegious spin on a Xmas classic. Enjoy:

On the 12th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
12 Crops a Cracking
Disciplinary devices for horses and “horses.” However, even if you’ve never gotten on a real horse or gotten into pony play, you can enjoy the erotic benefits of this kind of rod. For one thing, it just…read more in 150 Shades of Play

On the 11th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
11 Ponies Prancing
One of the most popular forms of animalism, complete with its own subculture and events calendar. There was even once a…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 10th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
10 Chains a Clanging
When nylon and leather cuffs are just too cute and fluffy, and you want something with a little more weight and muscle, go for cold, hard, steel wrist and ankle restraints. Steel shackles have that quintessential…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 9th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
9 Slappers Spanking
Like paddles, but narrower and with better sound effects. Usually made of…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 8th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
8 Boots a Kicking
Tamareki is a ball-kicking fetish. Do we even need to bother telling you that…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 7th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
7 Wheels a Spinning
The human-sized rat-exercise wheels of the BDSM world—except instead of running inside the wheel, you’re strapped to the outside, either…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 6th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
6 Whips a Flaying
A flogger is the pom pom of the BDSM world. (“Give me a W! Give me an H! Give me an I! Give me a P!”) A popular flagellation tool, a flogger consists of…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 5th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
5 Gold Cock Rings 
Rings or straps made just for the penis and testicles. Traditionally, a cock ring is meant to…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 4th Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
4 Balling Babes
Adult babies engage in a form of role-playing wherein one partner (typically a straight guy) plays baby and the other plays grownup (typically mommy). The “baby” wears man-sized diapers and might…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 3rd Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
3 Fetish Masks
Fetish wear for the face (probably what conservatives would consider a gateway accessory to more hardcore hoods). Most masks just…read more in 150 Shades of Play

 

On the 2nd Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
2 Latex Gloves 
Medical latex hand gloves that help protect against STDs, allow for smoother entry into orifices, and are the perfect accessory for…read more in 150 Shades of Play

On the 1st Day of Kinkmas my true sub gave to me…
And a House Slave in a Gimp Suit
Kinky onesies made out of leather, pleather, rubber, PVC, etc., and typically worn by a (usually male) submissive. Made famous by the 1994 Quentin Tarantino movie Pulp Fiction; made sexy by…read more in 150 Shades of Play

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Last Week for FREE Shipping of 150 SHADES OF PLAY!

December 13, 2013

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Kimono Robe by LELO

Your holiday shopping days are dwindling, so don’t miss out on the chance to give your lover a naughty stocking stuffer, your best friend a companion piece to her dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades, or your coworkers something to blush over during the Secret Santa exchange at your holiday office party! Our AWARD-WINNING book 150 SHADES OF PLAY: A Beginner’s Guide to Kink is available on Amazon. Here are the deadlines you have to beat this month to get your copies by Xmas:

For more information about our kickass (literally) book, 150 SHADES OF PLAY, visit  150ShadesOfPlay.com.



The Best Holiday Gift EVER Is Now Under 10 Bucks!

December 6, 2013

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Okay, we may be overstating things just a tad. But just check out the Amazon reviews and you’ll see that 150 Shades of Play: A Beginner’s Guide to Kink – winner of a 2013 IPPY Award! – is the most perfect, affordable, and easily purchased gift for:

  • Your friend who can’t wait for the Fifty Shades of Grey movies to come out
  • Your wife who wished there’d been a fourth book in the Fifty Shades series
  • Your partner who’s dying to try something new in the bedroom
  • Your partner whom you’re dying to try something new on
  • Your inappropriate friend who really loves dirty jokes

And just for the holidays, it’s available for the time ever FOR LESS THAN $10! Yes, it’s the perfect stocking stuffer / white elephant party gift / office secret santa present (okay, maybe not that last one). For more info about the book, visit 150ShadesOfPlay.com.
 

Order by Dec 17th for Xmas!

 
LELO’s Sutra Chainlink Cuffs and Sussurra Tap Shorts



A New Book That Some People Don’t Want You to Read (Part 2)

October 10, 2013

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a still from the video trailer of Happyland

Last week, we posted a provocative excerpt from HAPPYLAND, written by one of the coolest authors we know, J. ROBERT LENNON. The excerpt was from his new novel, the one that W. W. Norton pulled from production in 2005 over fears of libel, that Harper’s Magazine ran in serial (though heavily abridged) in the fall of 2006, and that Dzanc and Open Road finally published in unabridged e-book form last week. (It’s a New and Notable pick on Amazon for the month of October.) Below is the next scene in the book after last week’s excerpt. If you’re like us, you’ll want to buy the book after reading it. If you still need more convincing, check out the excellent video at the bottom of this post about the story behind this book that almost wasn’t.

While the student population of

Equinox was gathered inside the Furman auditorium, the village of Equinox stood quiet and colorless in the November air.  Evening had come; it was past eight, and the snow that had been drifting in flurries all day had begun to fall in earnest, and the patches of grass that had remained visible over the past week were soon covered over.  Smoke emerged from chimneys, lights came on in windows, and traffic dwindled until only a car or two passed by every now and then.

On campus, the quiet seemed eerie, as if the college had closed for good.  Only if you happened to pass by the auditorium would you discover where everyone had gone: by eight-thirty or so the hoots, grunts, and chants of the student body had reached a stunning pitch, and a passerby might have been forgiven for imagining that they’d been replaced by an entirely different set of young women, so striking was their transformation.  This same passerby would also be very curious about what, exactly, had effected this transformation, but because the lowest-reaching windows were more than eight feet off the ground, and because these windows were curtained, any such discovery was, unfortunately, impossible.

Unless of course the passerby happened to be standing in a certain spot, where the curtains were slightly parted, and happened to look up and toward the rear of the auditorium, where a mezzanine-mounted spotlight, its bulb burned out, reflected, wavily upon its red-filtered gel, a tiny crimson reflection of what was happening on stage.  And if this passerby should have had upon his person a pair of binoculars, or opera glasses, or extraordinarily acute vision, he might have made out in this reflection a peculiar tableau: a naked woman, bent over a rather clinical, examination-style table, her face twisted in what might, at this distance, appear to be pain, and might appear to be pleasure; and behind this woman a younger woman, short-haired, blond, dressed rather mannishly in jeans and a flannel shirt, and more importantly some sort of harness around her hips, which appeared to support a, frankly, penis-shaped object that the younger woman was thrusting repeatedly into the naked woman’s nether regions; and finally (and perhaps most peculiarly) a third woman, small and wizened and dressed in black, who stood beside the naked woman, pouring her small paper cups of water for her to snatch and empty into her mouth, much in the manner of a long-distance runner in his final, dehydrated miles.

Of course this passerby, if he existed, would shake his head in puzzlement and dismay, dismissing this bizarre scene out of hand, for surely no such activity could be taking place at this august institute of higher learning.  He might, in fact, decide upon a brisk walk to clear his head, and his snowbound wanderings might take him all the way to the northern edge of town, where he might observe two women in shorts—one wearing a tank-top as well, and the other only a bra—emerge, obviously drunk, from the back door of the octagonal kiosk that in summertime served as a popular ice-cream shop.  He would also notice that these women were both covered in blood—on their faces and shoulders and half-bare chests—and that, despite obviously having recently beaten the living crap out of one another, they seemed to be getting on like the best of friends, their arms draped around one another, their voices loud and effervescent with laughter.  If this were a local passerby, he might even notice that these women were Jennifer Triesman and Happy Masters, and if he happened to know them personally, this union would seem to him almost as unlikely as the sexually deviant bit of theater he’d come here to clear his mind of.

We can only hope, then, that our passerby, seeking to disinfect his troubled mind with drink, wouldn’t happen to drop by the Goodbye Goose, Dave Dryer’s now-defunct bar, and throw open the door.  No—we would encourage him to leave Equinox immediately for an extended vacation, or perhaps forever.  Because we would not want him to see poor Dave lying shirtless on a floor now cleared of tables and chairs.  We wouldn’t want him to look into Dave’s red, sleep-deprived eyes, or smell the horrible pain-killing poultice, discovered by chance in one of Kevin’s father’s mildewed survivalist magazines, that he has made himself out of ingredients he found in the woods, and applied liberally to his jaw.  And we certainly wouldn’t want our passerby to see the deer rifle that lay in pieces upon a stained bedsheet upon that same floor, nor the speed with which Dave was now, after days of incessant practice, able to reassemble, load, and arm the gun.  For if our passerby were to have this particular experience, he might never recover, believing himself to have gone mad.

Go, passerby, go: leave Equinox and don’t come back.

 

Happyland is available as an e-book from Amazon.com.