“Hi, I’m a horny, fat old disabled lady with a wild imagination. I love your stories. They have a touch of romance, daring, the taboo are well written and have good story lines. Last week I had a crazy erotic dream which involved having sex with a hermaphrodite extra terrestrial alien. To make it even more interesting I was that alien in my dream. Then out of curiosity I started reading some gay erotica and came upon your website. You’re a gifted writer.” Mary Beth
Needless to say, Mary Beth’s email made my day. You should email me too: email@example.com
I have long believed that one minute of wondering if you are about to be kissed is more erotic than an hour of kissing. Although a few gay Web sites complain “Little Ashes” doesn’t deliver the goods, I find it far more intriguing to find how repressed sexuality express itself, because the bolder sort comes out in the usual ways and reduces mystery to bodily fluids. Orgasms are at their best when still making big promises, don’t you find?
Just a reminder that the movie I co-wrote with legendary director Joe Gage, Dad Takes a Fishing Trip, is ready and available for all your self-abuse needs. I wrote the first two sex scenes: one where three guys in a motel room get into it (actually based on portions of this chapter of my story 428 College St), and another where a young punk gets worked over by his supervisor. I think the latter scene came out the best, mainly because the actors really hammed it up.
He got on the stop after mine; there was an empty seat next to me and I hoped and feared he would and would not take it.
He was beautiful, the kind of person I could never be – smiling, handsome, at ease.He took a seat next to another handsome man and started up a conversation with him.How?Living seemed to come so easy to others.I was a dead thing on my way to a dark house, bland meal, sleep.They smiled and talked and I didn’t understand. (more…)
That poll (and its results) was inspiring – I wrote this story before voting was even finished, figuring if a different story won I’d just write a sequel to that one, too. So chances are I’m going to do this same thing again, but I’m not sure how to add a twist to it, or just lamely go with a sequel to the second-place story. I’ll figure something out, but suggestions are welcome.
A Tool to Deceive and Slaughter is an artwork by Caleb Larsen, currently for sale on eBay. If it hasn’t sold in the next couple of days — the minimum bid is $2,500 — it will go back on eBay. On the other hand, if it does sell, it will still go back on eBay. That’s what it does, as clearly explained in the legal contract accompanying the work:
Artist has created a work of art titled “A Tool to Deceive and Slaughter (2009)” (“the Artwork”) which consists of a black box that places itself for sale on the auction website “eBay” (the “Auction Venue”) every seven (7) days. The Artwork consists of the combination of the black box or cube, the electronics contained therein, and the concept that such a physical object “sells itself” every week.
I mostly hate when writers write about writing. But it’s the night before my 31st birthday, so fuck it. Aside from some conversations I’ve had with my therapist, I’ve never formally examined my writing habits.
I realized while redesigning my website that as a writer I’m somewhat prolific. Not Stephen King prolific, but I’m definitely no Harper Lee. I have about seventy erotic stories posted here, and the oldest one was published on Nifty in 2001. That works out to about seven or eight stories a year. (more…)
Repost from old blog, 11/10/2006
Sitting in the car outside the store, waiting for my boyfriend to get directions. I was engrossed in my cellphone, examining it absentmindedly, cleaning the dust out of the crannies, the grease off of the screen, not thinking of anything much.
Then, I thought to look up and out the window. There were some dead flowers sticking out of the ground, and next to those, some still-fresh purple flowers. Beyond these was the glass-enclosed entrance to the store, and I saw a bee trying to get out, its movements labored on this mid-November day. Over and over it bumped into the glass, perhaps futilely trying to reach those purple flowers.
I felt grateful that I had thought to look up and examine what was going on around me, instead of just staring down at my cellphone. The bee behind the glass was a tragic little drama that I got to witness as a result of my (almost randomly occurring) mindfulness, a drama made all the more tragic because – as I now noticed – both sides perpendicular to the glass were completely open. The bee would only have had to fly a foot to the left or several feet to the right and it would have been free. But it just kept doing what it was doing, bumping over and over into that glass, staring at those flowers.
That’s when I understood it. Before I’d noticed the bee, we’d both been in the same place – trapped in our narrow frames of mind, totally focused on the small details, unable to step back and see the big picture and how it would free us, make us able to experience all that the world has to offer.