[Christmas] Nail Polish Fiction: Wingwoman

I got a manicure a couple of months back, and the polish was called Wingwoman. It felt like it was begging to be the name of a story…

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Wingwoman

‘Lame.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He gestures at her ombré fairy wings – the ones she bought from Claire’s Accessories at ten to five.

‘The theme was superheroes.’

Faux-obtuse, she raises an eyebrow. ‘And?’

‘You’re dressed as a fucking fairy.’

She’s not having it. Especially not from a guy whose idea of dressing for a superhero fancy dress party is a Batman t-shirt over faded jeans.

‘No, I’m a superhero.’

‘Which one?’

‘Wingwoman.’

What starts as a sneer morphs into a grin, as if he can’t help himself.

‘Wingwoman? And what are her super powers?’

She gestures to the corner of the room, where Mark has been sucking some girl’s face off for the past fifteen minutes. ‘She can find you a shag within half an hour of arriving at a party.’

He winks at her. ‘Really?!’

Oh, spare the fucking cheese, she thinks. She doesn’t need this. She’d agreed to accompany Mark to this party because she owed him a favour, but the favour doesn’t stretch as far as tolerating predictable flirting from some guy who used his opening line to insult her.

They’re kids wings, too, and the elastic straps are way too short, so they sit too high on her back – if she actually were a fairy there’s not a chance in hell they’d keep her airborne. She’s wearing them with a silver top and denim skirt and although she knows she looks ridiculous, she thinks it’s kind of cute-ridiculous. At least she’s abandoned her matching wand somewhere over by the wine.

She gives him a withering look. ‘Sure. But only if you put more effort into your chat up lines than you did into your costume.’

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘So that’s your other superpower. You can find a guy a shag in thirty minutes or cut him dead in two. Nice.’

She likes a man with a quick comeback. She has a weakness for guys who turn verbal sparring into actual sparring – the ones who teasingly slap her arse on the way to the bedroom, and then again, repeatedly and harder, once they’re actually inside her. She likes boys who dare her to masturbate in front of them until she comes apart, the ones who tell her to keep her eyes open the whole time, the ones who force her hand back to her clit if she stops. And the ones who bite. Fuck, especially the ones who bite.

‘Yep,’ she replies, and hands him her glass. ‘Or I can trade another drink for another chance.’

‘Red, right?’

‘Well spotted.’

When he returns from the makeshift bar, he’s carrying not only her drink, but also her wand.

‘This belong to you?’

‘It did. I was trying to offload it.’

He turns his hand over so his palm faces upwards and experimentally strikes it with the wand. Hard. The sound of it makes her wet.

‘No use for it, huh?’

‘Well,’ she says, taking it from him, chin tilted upwards and eye-contact maintained the whole time. ‘I wouldn’t necessarily say that.’

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I know this is presumptuous, especially given that it’s been less than half an hour, but do you want to take this upstairs?’

She doesn’t reply, just sashays up the stairs ahead of him, leaving him to follow in her wake. It’s only when they reach the top that she turns to face him, kisses him, and says ‘Good plan, Batman.’ And then she bursts out laughing. She’s inordinately pleased with herself for that line.

He’s laughing too, but his eyes are roaming the landing for some place they can go. The bathroom is occupied. The door to the study is ajar, and she’d fuck on an IKEA desk if that was the best option, but there’s also the bedroom. With a bed. A bed that’s covered in coats.

They’re too horny to care now. The thick heft of his cock is straining against his jeans and he shuts the door, wedges a chair under the handle, flicks off the light and pushes her unceremoniously onto the bed, hard enough to show that he gets her.

She reaches for his belt, but one of his hands is on hers, lifting them high above her head and holding them there, while the other flicks open the steel buttons on his fly and frees his dick.

She wants to touch it, and so she tries to wriggle free, but he only tightens his grip, which makes her wetter still, and brings his lips down to meet hers. He kisses like a dream.

They fuck like superheroes would fuck, his jeans still around his ankles, her knickers shoved to one side, as if either one of them might have to fly off and save the world at any minute. It’s quick, but it’s good: he grinds against her clit with every thrust and before she knows it the world is shattering into a million sparkly pieces and she’s gasping into his mouth. When he comes he buries his face against her neck and she strokes his back, not caring what he might make of that.

She does care though when he props himself up on his elbow and kisses her swiftly on the lips. It feels like she’s losing him.

She tries to make a joke of it. ‘Isn’t Batman also an escapologist? Should I expect you to disappear right about now?’

‘No chance,’ he says, leaning into her again and sinking his teeth into her collarbone.

‘And,’ he says, tweaking her bent and flattened wings as she’s blissfully contemplating the bruise she’ll have tomorrow,  ‘It doesn’t look like you’ll be flying off anywhere soon either.’

GT

With less than five minutes till the deadline for Exhibit A’s Sinful Stories 2 competition, I can’t work out how to embed Molly Moore’s gorgeous photo, the one that speaks to all my kinks, into the post! Argh! Anyway, you’ll find it here.  And my second competition entry is below…

***

It all started with Simon Jamieson in Year 9. All those dotted characters whose dots she could turn into perfect bubble hearts as she married herself off to him on the back of her English exercise book. Gemma Jamieson. Gemma Thompson-Jamieson. GJ. Mrs Gemma Jamieson. He turned out to be a cunt, though. Obviously.

All through her twenties it was the same story, worse even. She no longer met anyone she could see herself marrying, and the guys she did meet didn’t give a fuck who *she* was. They didn’t even call her Gemma – it was always ‘Baby,’ ‘Sweetheart,’ or even ‘Baby Gem,’ like the lettuce. She bloody hated salad.

Alex called her ‘Great tits,’ right from the night she met him. Somehow it was the best nickname she’d ever had. He called her other names, too: ‘Slut,’ ‘Whore,’ ‘Filthy bitch.’ Hard words that she found herself begging him to say. He’d hold her down and sink his thumbs or his teeth deep into her collarbone, her neck, her breasts. She was fascinated by the bruises that formed in the aftermath: the way they sprang up within hours where her skin was delicate and close to the bone, only to appear whole days later on the softer bits round her nipples and on her tummy.

Date night, to her surprise, was still a thing. He could fuck her mouth so hard it made tears stream down her cheeks, tell her to clean herself up, then take her out to dinner *and* let her share his dessert. Why had nobody ever told her it could be like that?

And dinner did nothing to sate his appetite for her. On the way home he’d fuck her in dark alleyways, shop doorways, bus stops. She remembered them all, of course, but none stood out more than the subway.

The subway made her feel vulnerable – that was why she loved it. He made her strip off her clothes, fold them neatly and pile them on the damp, filthy floor. He made her walk a hundred yards from where she’d left them, to the point at which the tunnel sloped back towards the road, and told her to keep watch. It didn’t escape her notice that no one was watching the other entrance, and nor was she sure what she was guarding against.

She heard the hiss of paint and swung her head round. In broad strokes, he’d sprayed her initials in the formation in which he liked to mark her: big and black and smudgy right above her heart and then two smaller, redder swellings either side of it. The formation in which he *did* mark her, there under his graffiti, the smell of solvent still thick in the air. He fucked her, hard, and then he got up and went to fetch her dress.

He’d reduced her to nothing more than a body. He’d sprayed her tits with his come and the wall with an elegy to her tits. She stretched. The concrete bit into her arse. Her grazes stung. It felt like coming home.

***Massive thanks to @Mollysdailykiss for permission to use her gorgeous pic, obviously. Thanks Molly! x ***

 

Cold for July

contemplation-3-ss

He was hot in the way of British summers: longed for, sticky and never around for as long as you wanted.

That said, they’d lasted a year, on and off, even though she was never quite sure what their deal was. He’d flitted in and out of her life, butterfly-like, and she’d chased him, more than a little eager to stick pins through his wings. He even fucked on top of the covers, as if he couldn’t bear to be beneath them, trapped in the fug of his own body heat.

At first, she’d struggled to associate that on-top-of-the-duvet fucking with intimacy – she wanted the two of them rolled beneath it, not these marooned-on-top shags she got instead. But she’d learnt, with time, that they didn’t need cotton and feathers to bind them – it was enough to wind her arms around his neck as he buried his cock deep inside her and to feel his sweat-slick skin stick to hers as he held it there.

A year in, she still puts in more effort than he deserves. Tonight, for example, she’s wearing the killer heels she knows he loves, and she’s stopped at the hairdresser on her way home from work to have her fringe trimmed. Her hair’ll be out of place ten minutes after he walks through the door.

After sex, her fringe always sticks to her face, and he’ll peel it away and kiss her damp and salty forehead. The room smells of the two of them, and she holds on tight to him, and wills his cock not to soften. ‘I just want you inside me’ – those words trip so often from her tongue, her emails, her iPhone keypad, that they’re like a mantra now.

Tonight though, she never got the chance to say them. Tonight he cut her off before they were even fully naked: he took the hand that was reaching for his belt and guided it gently back to the mattress. She tried to break free, at first – he was just playing Dom, right?

He was playing Dom, as it happened, but with someone new. Someone he’d met in a bar, a few weeks back. Someone he’d thought would be just another fling. But things change…

He didn’t want to mess her around.

And so she let him let himself out. He did it quietly, without fuss. As break-ups went, it was one of her better ones. But the bed, the one she’d always slept alone in six nights out of seven, was too big without him. She slipped down into the gap between the bed and the radiator, where the space felt more manageable, more contained. It didn’t stop her shaking.

She turned the radiator on. It was cold for July.

***

This is an entry for Exhibit A’s Sinful Stories 2 competition. Many thanks to @Flutterbyflip for permission to base the story on her beautiful and inspiring photo.

‘Don’t read clickbait, read this instead’ – COMPETITION RESULTS!

As ever, when I put out a call for excellent writing you didn’t let me down. There were twelve posts from eleven entrants on topics ranging from Guy Fawkes to knicker-sniffing. Which was exactly what I wanted: I love sex blogging, but I read much more widely than that and I wanted to acknowledge just how much fantastic blogging goes on, not for financial gain, or for followers, but just for the sheer love of writing.

So let’s start in reverse order by date/time of submission. @brosandprose is a relatively new discovery of mine, but as ever she wrote elegantly and insightfully about the crossover between sex writing and pop culture. My knowledge of Taylor Swift extends only as far as the lyrics to Love Story and something to do with Harry Styles, but I loved this piece.

Then @Juniper3Glasgow, who won my last competition with this amazing storyFireworks is an equally powerful post, and I love that Juniper has a way of writing about real events that have shaped her in a way that’s neither sentimental or indulgent. Nobody could deny that the girl has a way with words.

@codexonline wrote on heartbreak. I’m a sucker for a sad posts, and this struck a few chords with me – lines like ‘I’m going to be quick because I have to start thinking about her again at some point,’ and his inclusion of the eternally painful quote ‘never allow someone be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.” I know just what he’s getting at. I’ve been there. Sharing that pain never stops being being brave, though.

@bangsnwhimpers submitted two great entries. The first, on kissing with confidence has lots of great moments but I particularly like the vignetted moments of actual kissing ‘ The clearing of the throat, the disposing of gum. The butterflies in the stomach. The shifting in your seat, the stirring in your pants. The hands, the hands reaching around your waist, sliding over your behind, touching your arm’ and ‘The trophy of a kissing session, the dry lips. Kissing a smoker, that ashy taste, that tinge of smoke. A lipstick smudge on his lips. Your fingers wiping it off. And then more kisses.’

The second is on music, and I wholeheartedly agree with every word. It made me laugh, too, with its quips about trumpet players being able to breathe through their ears and the drummer who liked girls to shit on his chest (you’ll need to read it for context).

Massive kudos to @Hornygeekgirl who completely took me at my word when I said people could write about anything they wanted, and wrote about Guy Fawkes and freedom fighters. What I love about this is not only the unapologetic  break with her usual subject matter but also that it showcases how positive and thoughtful she always, always is.

@JillyBoyd wrote on a subject close to all our hearts: how to capture the runaway idea when you’re a writer. I’m still on a relatively sharp learning curve where this is concerned but I think her keyword suggestion is fucking genius. Thanks Jilly!

@Innocentlb wrote with great poignancy about an early relationship and the difficulty of balancing friendship and love. I’ve been there, too and I know how hard it is when your friends don’t seem to want the best for you (and in fact, sometimes I’m the bitch who doesn’t want the best for her friends.) There’s lots good about this post, but I like the underlying sense of unease that carries through the whole piece.

First time stories are always a favourite of mine, and @girlseule didn’t disappoint. Evie blends story and musing about what virginity really means masterfully. She’s also completely unabashed about the fact that in some ways she’s still the same girl she was back then: ‘I think I was looking for affection and someone to just like me a lot more than I was looking for sex. I think I still am,’ and I’m a huge, huge fan of her writing.

@FSolomonRR rose to the non-fiction challenge with characteristic enthusiasm, which in itself is enough to make me adore her. Like Jilly she wrote on writing, and the candid honest with which she describes what she’s learnt is an inspiration. I really hope she keeps up the nonfiction writing as well as the fiction though, because she’s damn good at it.

And Molly. Lovely @mollysdailykiss. I think the only fair description of this post is ‘you don’t get much braver than this.’ I’ve learnt so much from Molly’s writing, not least that if you’re candid and true to yourself, even if what you’re describing isn’t everybody’s kink – she wrote about enjoying the smell of her own underwear – people will respect you for the honesty that shines through in your writing. I certainly respect her for that.

We’re getting close to the result now, but first let me start with my runner up. @Fantasticalview usually writes poetry, but you’d never guess that he’s new to prose from his piece. At first, it made me a little uncomfortable – while words like ‘Bitch’ and ‘Slut’ are fine if they’re used in my bedroom or if I apply them to myself, there has to be a damn good reason for them to be used to describe anyone else. But there is a damn good reason here, and also: the best writing often does make you uncomfortable – it should force you to ask uncomfortable questions at least – and this is a wonderful blend of love and grief and writing that does just that. I fucked up the prizes a little on this perhaps – it would have been good to have a second and third prize – but this is definitely a worthy runner up.

What I really didn’t anticipate was that the Readers’ Choice and my own prize might both end up going to the same person. I thought that the winning piece, while it is a stunningly thoughtful and clever essay – might resonate with me more than other people because it’s about the learning curve associated with sex writing. I was wrong – it not only gets my vote, it also took 46% of *your* votes. It’s honest to a fault (‘I didn’t consider my own complicity in getting hurt, that I had become attached to someone who was honest about only wanting something physical. I thought he was pure asshole, and I wrote it all down in a malicious tirade’) but it does it without self-recrimation or regret – it’s an ‘onwards and upwards’ type of post, and I *fucking* love that. So yes, @brosandprose, both Charlie’s Choice and the Reader’s Choice prizes are yours for the fabulous ‘Everything I know about sex writing I learned from Taylor Swift‘ – drop me a line (sexblogofsorts@gmail.com) with your preferred email address and I’ll make sure your prizes wing their way to you ASAP.

Thanks again so much to everyone who entered – expect the ‘Don’t Read Clickbait, Read This Instead’ award to become an annual thing.

Charlie xx

 

Don’t read clickbait, read this instead: Cast your vote!

So, finally, after a week of harassment by me, the ‘Don’t read clickbait, read this instead‘ competition is closed. All the entries were fantastic and I’m still making my mind up about ‘Charlie’s Choice’ but in the meantime, a little reminder that the other prize is in your hands (or your clicking finger, at least).

All of the entries are hyperlinked below, and below that, there’s a poll. Please do vote for your favourite and please do try to resist the temptation to vote for your own post. The poll will close at 23.59 on Saturday 15th November, and I’ll announce the winners of both prizes on Sunday 16th.

Thanks to all those who joined in, and thanks in advance for your votes!

Charlie x

PS If you entered, you might just want to double check your post is listed below. I *think* I caught everybody, but accidents happen…

The entries:

Everything I know about sex writing I learned from Taylor Swift by @brosandprose

The Fireworks by @Juniper3Glasgow

Heartbreak by @codexonline

Fixing passion… by @FantasticalView

Kissing with confidence by @bangsnwhimpers

Guy Fawkes by @hornygeekgirl

How to capture the runaway idea… before it runs away by @JillyBoyd

Indeed by @innocentlb

That time I lost my virginity by @girlseule

Please don’t stop the music by @bangsnwhimpers

A break from fiction, but still a prompt! by @FSolomonRR

Sniffy by @mollysdailykiss

Don’t read clickbait, read this: **The Competition**

During October I’ve been taking part in the ridiculously named #NaBloPoMo. With literally a minute to spare, I posted the final post last night – it was preceded by thirty others, one for each day in the month. I’m not sure that I’ve done my finest blogging over the past thirty-one days, but there have been posts I’ve been proud of, and perhaps more importantly, posts that have inspired posts on similar topics by other great bloggers or provoked discussion on Twitter. Posts that have reminded me what I love about blogging, essentially.

My other campaign in recent months has been ‘Don’t read clickbait, read this instead,’ which is my own take on #FF – suggesting Twitter accounts and bloggers that have far more to say than the majority of list posts that seem to dominate the ‘traditional press’ at the moment. At last check, my blog reader contained 119 blogs – I don’t read all of them on a regular basis, but what I like about that selection is that it’s pretty diverse – there are blogs on food, sex, fashion, beauty, parenting, disability… Essentially, if it’s good writing I want to read it, whether or not it tallies with my life experience.

To mark the end of #NaBloPoMo, I wanted to do something a bit special, something a bit like the Polished competition that I ran a few months back. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I didn’t want to run another erotica competition – I follow and am followed by a lot of great erotica writers, but I equally want to involve people who read my blog and who would like to join in but who don’t write fiction. Or about sex, necessarily.

So the challenge is to write a non-fiction post (full rules below) on any topic that you like. Given that the competition isn’t limited to sex I didn’t want the prizes to be sex-related either, so I’ve gone down the more generic route of what I love: books.

There are 2 prizes:

Charlie’s Choice: £15/$25 Amazon voucher

Readers’ Choice: £10/$15 Amazon voucher

The Readers’ Choice will be a poll once the competition has closed, so even if you don’t enter, please do vote for your favourite post.

The Rules…

(1) You must write a non-fiction (op-ed or real life story) blog post. No fiction, please.
(2) The post must (obviously) be your own work.
(3) There is no minimum length for posts, but they must be no longer than 1500 words.
(4) You must post the piece on your own blog and link back to this post in order for your entry to be counted.
(5) You *do not* have to write about sex or women’s issues. If you want to enter a piece about food, fashion or steam trains, that’s fine by me. That said, obviously it’s fine to write about sex and women’s issues too.
(6) The competition closes at 23.59 GMT on Saturday, November 8th Sunday, November 9th. Any entries submitted after this point will not be considered.
(7) The winning entry will be the post that I like most/find most interesting. The Reader’s Choice prize will be given to the post that receives the most votes in a poll.
(8) You consent to me linking to your post in a list of all the entries once the competition has closed and reproducing your post on Sex blog(of sorts) if it wins.
(9) Should you win, you are happy to share your email address with me for the purpose of sending your prize.
(10) Your post must have been written on or after Nov 1st 2014. Please do not enter posts from your archive.

Please do read the rules above carefully. If I’ve missed anything, or you have questions, please let me know…

Charlie xx

Damaged heroes and tea-swilling heroines

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So, by my calculations there are 7 days and oh, 12 blog posts left until the end of October. And I really want to hit the full 31 posts because I have a bit of a project that I want to launch on November 1st and I’m only going to do it if I complete the blog posting challenge successfully.

With that in mind, missing this week’s Wicked Wednesday was a slight disaster.

It sort of took me by surprise, even though I’d been thinking about the prompt since a conversation I had with Kristina Lloyd at her book launch last Saturday night. Well, sort of. It actually also ties in really nicely with something I’ve been thinking about since I went to a couple of events at the Cheltenham literature festival at the beginning of the month.

Anyway, let’s start with the prompt. I feel a little guilty saying this, but drunk, rambling man in a bar feels a bit cliche to me. Or rather, it feels cliche, but also an entirely feasible situation with which to start a story.

Back, briefly to the literature festival. The first talk I went to was this, on the ‘Rise of the anti-heroine.’ Although I fully recognise that feminism still has a long way to go, and that men and women are far from equal, I’m always stunned as to how much this affects women in fields like literature. It’s supposedly harder to get published if you’re a woman, something which kind of makes sense when you look at things like the statistics behind ‘The Year of Reading Women.’

I have a handful of notes from that evening – one of which just says ‘relatable, likeable.’ Another is a quote from Gone Girl author Gillian Flynn, which i failed to copy down exactly but is something along the lines of ‘Feminism is the ability to have female characters who are bad.’ One of the authors on the panel said that women writing chick lit are told that their female characters must be the kinds of women you’d want to sit and drink tea with. I think that’s meant to mean ‘sweet and nice’ – in short, the kind of women I personally loathe spending time with. I’m pretty flawed and I like to spend my time, both when I’m reading and in real life, with women who are equally so. Which is probably why I haven’t read chick lit for years. Someone else said that what we refer to as ‘the anti heroine,’ if it was a male character would simply be referred to as realistic and interesting.

I finished The Lemon Grove back in August, and so I asked Helen Walsh about her portrayal of anal sex in the novel, which caused a bit of a stunned silence, but hey, I can handle that. More specifically, what I asked was ‘Is an openness and a love of sex for the sake of sex a characteristic of the anti-heroine?’ The answer was pretty much ‘Yes.’ So you can imagine my joy when, after I’d asked that question, a middle-aged man (in a mainly female audience) asked for the mic and posed the question ‘Why does writing strong women have to mean writing about sex?’ I gave him side-eyes, but I don’t think he noticed. I can’t quite remember what the panel said, but my answer would be ‘Because for so long we haven’t been able to. So suck it up.’ As an aside though, things are hopefully changing. The boy walked in on me in the middle of reading that anal scene: when I asked him what he thought of it he said ‘You might want to use some lube, love.’ Which is definitely progress of a kind.

Let’s go back to men. Based on what I’ve said up till now, you’d think male characters have a much easier ride of it. After all, complex men are just realistic and interesting, right? Well, yes, up until the arrival of a certain billionaire (by the by, I was in WH Smith today and the covers in the erotica section are now literally fifty shades of grey. Who is still reading/publishing/buying these novels?)  Except it seems that in erotica, if you’re writing men  who have much growth/self-discovery to do as the heroine, men who are still learning about/discovering their own desires and men who make (sometimes pretty awful) mistakes as a result of that, those men are automatically ‘damaged.’ I call bullshit. *That’s* equality – learning about sex, about desire, about what turns us on and off, about sometimes misjudging things is something we all do, not because we’re male or female, but because we’re human. Those are the kind of men I want to read, and more importantly the kind I want to write. The photo at the top of this post is my notes from feedback from my writing group: at the top right it says ‘Neither character has proper character arc; he’s on the margins; entire relationship is a projection onto him.’ Those things are top of my list of things to fix. Because I don’t want cardboard cutout men, or women who are dependent on those men for everything they discover about sex. Real men do get drunk and messy in bars. So do real women. Life is messy. Fiction should be too.

Oh god, what have I done…

I can’t post this until the clock turns 00:00, which is a bugger in itself, because I was counting on having an early night tonight.

Usually, in the autumn, I commit, foolishly, on about October 30th, to NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month – where you challenge yourself to write a 50k word novel in November. As you can probably imagine, it doesn’t tend to end that well: I think I’ve done it six times now, and I usually average between about 1800 and 8000 words over the course of the month.

Except in 2008, and, er, last year. In 2008 and 2013, I hit 50,000 words. Last year, I even managed to reach the ending by 50k, although flicking through it now, having not picked it up since last Winter, it, like me, needs some serious work on its flabby middle.

For once, I think it would be nice to sit down and do the editorial hard graft on that ‘novel.’ It’s the first full length work of erotica I’ve ever written and although it’s highly flawed and distressingly autobiographical in places, I think it deserves to live. Which means that this year, I won’t be doing NaNoWriMo.

i need a writing challenge though, because I can only edit for so many hours a day, and writing makes me happy. And today on Twitter, I came across NaBloPoMo, which i mostly like the sound of because the acronym sounds a bit filthy. NaBloPoMo is an October challenge, where you aim to write a blog post a day.

This is my first, which, yes, ok, is kind of cheating, but let’s gloss over that. I’ve toyed with the idea of having a strategy or plan, dividing the month up into say, 6 different categories and writing five posts on each (before anyone questions my maths skills, this is post one, which leaves 30 posts to be written.) If I do follow my plan, it’ll look roughly like this:

5 x typical Charlie style, ‘whatever I feel like writing about’ posts
4 x Wicked Wednesday
4 x Sinful Sunday
5 x posts about women/sex in the press
2 x pieces of erotica/fiction

Umm… that leaves ten more…

I’d love to write about stuff *you’d* like me to write about, and even more than that, I’d love to end the month with a Q & A post not dissimilar to this one. So, if you have ideas for posts, or you have a Q&A question (and please do send these as the post won’t work without them!), please feel free to DM me on Twitter (@sexblogofsorts), leave a comment here, or drop me an email at sexblogofsorts@gmail.com.

Apologies in advance if I bore the pants off you this October…

Guest Post: Kristina Lloyd’s Main Man

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of Kristina Lloyd’s fiction. I love her writing style, her unashamedly hardcore approach to erotica, and perhaps most of all, her male characters. Which is why I’m delighted to have her here today to talk about the hero of her new novel, Undone. Over to you, Kristina…

Undone Kristina Lloyd

My new novel, Undone, is set in a cocktail bar, and the main man is Sol Miller. Several months into writing the book, it was pointed out to me I’d named him after two brands of beer. I swear this wasn’t intentional! I briefly considered changing his name but by then it was too late. He was Sol Miller through and through.

Sol is a Jewish ex-New Yorker , now resident in the UK. I wanted him to have an ordinary, American name so spent time diligently researching common Jewish names before, yup, inadvertently naming him after a couple of lagers. In the current erotica publishing climate, Sol is perhaps unusual because he’s not a billionaire. (I’m sure I’m not the only person with zero erotic interest in wealth.) He’s a former IT guy, taking a step back from a stressful career and doing casual labour at a building site in Saltbourne, the town where my protagonist, Lana Greenwood, has her cocktail bar.

I love writing about mysterious, possibly dangerous men, and creating female characters willing to play with fire. Lana meets Sol at a weekend party in a manor house. While drinking in the garden with friends, she’s directed indoors to fetch another bottle of wine. Here’s a brief excerpt where Lana describes their first meeting:

“The stone utility room was cool and shadowy, an Aladdin’s cave of alcohol. Sunlight filtered in through a small, grimy window, casting a meagre sheen on kegs, crates and exotic, multi-coloured bottles. I blinked as my eyes readjusted, goosebumps stippling my bare arms.

In the veiled light, a shirtless man stood before a tall American fridge, head bowed. He rested one hand on the matte silver door, while the other angled a pint glass at the ice dispenser. He wore canvas knee-lengths, slung low on his hips, and his dark, sweat-soaked hair was hooked behind his ears. He was powerfully muscular but not unnaturally chiseled, and a small roll of softness edged his waist. Ice cubes clattered into the glass. The bars of his ribs pumped below wet spikes of hair in the pit of his raised arm. His torso glistened, a soft curve of light resting on one shoulder. Beads of sweat trickled down his chest . A couple of droplets fell, making dark spots on the flagstones.

I shivered. Laughter and the clink of glasses from outside grew faint, as if I were sinking under water, the world fading out of reach. He stood straight, glancing at me. For an instant, the light around him was magical, a diaphanous haze pricked with glittering motes. His chest hair was plastered to his body, and his lower lip was smeared with blood, a glossy violet bulge distorting its shape.

‘You see any cloths around here?’ His accent was American, a sexy, sonorous drawl, and a  slight slur marred his words. He stepped into shadow and slid open a flaky, wooden door beneath an old Belfast sink. He bobbed down to peer in, holding the sink above for balance. Down his left side, from underarm to hip, was a tattoo unlike any I’d seen before. To be accurate, there were several tattoos but they formed a picture, or a panel, depicting a stemmed dandelion head gone to seed. The images were as delicately rendered as etchings under tissue paper in a botanical encyclopaedia. Single, fluffy orbs drifted from the spiky round flower, as if a breeze were blowing tattoos across his body. I half wanted to reach out and catch one, then I could make a wish.”

Lana and Sol exchange only a few words but Lana immediately thinks she’s got him sussed: simple, straightforward, sporty, fun. Not her type at all. She’s forced to reevaluate her opinion when she hooks up with him and another guy, Misha, for a threesome. She starts to suspect there’s more to Sol than meets the eye, especially on the morning after when Misha is discovered dead in the swimming pool. Lana has reason to believe Sol may be implicated in the death. She knows the wisest thing would be to steer clear of him but she’s finding him increasingly hot and intriguing. So of course, she follows her groin rather than her head. And I totally would, too!

If you’d like to know more about Undone, please hop over to my blog for an excerpt, and check out the other stops on my Sexy September blog tour.

 

Kristina Lloyd writes erotic fiction about sexually submissive women who like it on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. Her novels are published by Black Lace and her short stories have appeared in dozens of anthologies, including several ‘best of’ collection, in both the UK and US. She lives in Brighton, England.

About Undone

When Lana Greenwood attends a glamorous house party she finds herself tempted into a ménage à trois. But the morning after brings more than just regrets over fulfilling a fantasy one night stand. One of the men she’s spent the night with is discovered dead in the swimming pool. Accident, suicide or murder, no one is sure and Lana doesn’t know where to turn. Can she trust Sol, the other man, an ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and a deep desire to continue their kinky game?

Undone is published on Sept 11th, 2014. Pre-order with Amazon: Amazon UK paperback :: Amazon UK Kindle :: Amazon US Kindle :: Amazon CA paperback :: Amazon CA Kindle

Polished: NEW RULES

A few weeks back I posted this – a bit of fun and a way to get some much needed (for me at least) writing inspiration.

Since then, a few people have contacted me and said they’d like to join in, but for various reasons were wary or unable to: they didn’t want to give out their address or they lived overseas, to name just a couple.

So, because it’s my game, I’m changing the rules. The original suggestion still stands, and if you’d like to send/be sent an actual nail polish you have until midnight tonight to DM or email me to let me know. You can find the full rules on the original post.

However, if the idea appeals but the format puts you off, here are two alternatives:

Alternative 1

Drop me an email or a DM and I will pick, at random, one of my many nail polishes and email you its name. You then write a story that references the nail polish name in some way. You can request a polish name any time between now and the 27th July.

Alternative 2

You pick one of your own nail polish colours and write a story that references that nail polish name in some way.

Now with prizes…

Originally, I said this wasn’t a competition and there wouldn’t be any prizes. I’ve since changed my mind. Anyone who writes a nail polish themed story and publishes it on their blog/sends me the link before midnight on July 27th will be eligible to win a copy of my favourite erotica anthology. That applies no matter where in the world you live.

*UPDATE* Since I posted this earlier, the lovely Kristina Lloyd has contacted me to say that she’ll send the winner a copy of her new novel Undone, before its official UK release date. She’s also offered to kill the winner if they subsequently post spoilers.

Any questions, let me know…